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LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 
VOL.  I. 


PAGE 

SOPHY  —  VANCE'S  STUDY  OF  HEAD  FOR  TITANIA     .     .     .     Frontispiece, 

LIONEL  AND  SOPHY  IN  THE  FRUITERER'S  GARDEN 67 

GENTLEMAN  WAIFE  AND  SOPHY  BY  THE  BROOK 172 

LADY  MONTFORT    .  .    .    360 


1 


WHAT   WILL   HE    DO   WITH    IT 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


BOOK    I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  which  the  history  opens  with  a  description  of  the  social  manners,  habits, 
and  amusements  of  the  English  People,  as  exhibited  in  an  immemorial 
National  Festivity.  —  Characters  to  be  commemorated  in  the  history,  in- 
troduced and  graphically  portrayed,  with  a  nasological  illustration. — 
Original  suggestions  as  to  the  idiosyncrasies  engendered  by  trades  and 
callings,  with  other  matters  worthy  of  note,  conveyed  in  artless  dialogue 
after  the  manner  of  Herodotus,  Father  of  History  (mother  unknown). 

IT  was  a  summer  fair  in  one  of  the  prettiest  villages  in 
Surrey.  The  main  street  was  lined  with  booths,  abounding 
in  toys,  gleaming  crockery,  gay  ribbons,  and  gilded  ginger- 
bread. Farther  on,  where  the'  street  widened  into  the  ample 
village-green,  rose  the  more  pretending  fabrics  which  lodged 
the  attractive  forms  of  the  Mermaid,  the  Norfolk  Giant,  the 
Pig-faced  Lady,  the  Spotted  Boy,  and  the  Calf  with  Two 
Heads;  while  high  over  even  these  edifices,  and  occupying 
the  most  conspicuous  vantage-ground,  a  lofty  stage  promised 
to  rural  playgoers  the  "  Grand  Melodramatic  Performance  of 
The  Remorseless  Baron  and  the  Bandit's  Child."  Music, 
lively  if  artless,  resounded  on  every  side, —  drums,  fifes, 
penny -whistles,  cat-calls,  and  a  hand-organ  played  by  a  dark 
foreigner,  from  the  height  of  .whose  shoulder  a  cynical  but 
observant  monkey  eyed  the  hubbub  and  cracked  his  nuts. 

It  was  now  sunset, — the  throng  at  the  fullest, —  an  ani- 
mated, joyous  scene.  The  day  had  been  sultry;  no  clouds 

VOL.  I.  —  1 


2  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

were  to  be  seen,  except  low  on  the  western  horizon,  where 
they  stretched,  in  lengthened  ridges  of  gold  and  purple,  like 
the  border-land  between  earth  and  sky.  The  tall  elins  on  the 
green  were  still,  save,  near  the  great  stage,  one  or  two,  upon 
which  had  climbed  young  urchins,  whose  laughing  faces 
peered  forth,  here  and  there,  from  the  foliage  trembling 
under  their  restless  movements. 

Amidst  the  crowd,  as  it  streamed  saunteringly  along,  were 
two  spectators;  strangers  to  the  place,  as  was  notably  proved 
by  the  attention  they  excited,  and  the  broad  jokes  their  dress 
and  appearance  provoked  from  the  rustic  wits, — jokes  which 
they  took  with  amused  good-humour,  and  sometimes  retaliated 
with  a  zest  which  had  already  made  them  very  popular  per- 
sonages ;  indeed,  there  was  that  about  them  which  propitiated 
liking.  They  were  young;  and  the  freshness  of  enjoyment 
was  so  visible  in  their  faces,  that  it  begot  a  sympathy,  and 
wherever  they  went,  other  faces  brightened  round  them. 

One  of  the  two  whom  we  have  thus  individualized  was  of 
that  enviable  age,  ranging  from  five-and-twenty  to  seven-and- 
twenty,  in  which,  if  a  man  cannot  contrive  to  make  life  very 
pleasant, —  pitiable  indeed  must  be  the  state  of  his  digestive 
organs.  But  you  might  see  by  this  gentleman's  countenance 
that  if  there  were  many  like  him,  it  would  be  a  worse  world 
for  the  doctors.  His  cheek,  though  not  highly  coloured,  was 
yet  ruddy  and  clear;  his  hazel  eyes  were  lively  and  keen; 
his  hair,  which  escaped  in  loose  clusters  from  a  jean  shooting- 
cap  set  jauntily  on  a  well-shaped  head,  was  of  that  deep 
sunny  auburn  rarely  seen  but  in  persons  of  vigorous  and 
hardy  temperament.  He  was  good-looking  on  the  whole,  and 
would  have  deserved  the  more  flattering  epithet  of  handsome, 
but  for  his  nose,  which  was  what  the  French  call  "a  nose 
in  the  air, " —  not  a  nose  supercilious,  not  a  nose  provocative, 
as  such  noses  mostly  are,  but  a  nose  decidedly  in  earnest  to 
make  the  best  of  itself  and  of  things  in  general, —  a  nose 
that  would  push  its  way  up  in  life,  but  so  pleasantly  that 
the  most  irritable  fingers  would  never  itch  to  lay  hold  of  it. 
With  such  a  nose  a  man  might  play  the  violoncello,  marry 
for  love,  or  even  write  poetry,  and  yet  not  go  to  the  dogs. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  3 

Never  would  he  stick  in  the  mud  so  long  as  he  followed  that 
nose  in  the  air. 

By  the  help  of  that  nose  this  gentleman  wore  a  black  velve- 
teen jacket  of  foreign  cut;  a  mustache  and  imperial  (then 
much  rarer  in  England  than  they  have  been  since  the  Siege 
of  Sebastopol) ;  and  yet  left  you  perfectly  convinced  that  he 
was  an  honest  Englishman,  who  had  not  only  no  designs  on 
your  pocket,  but  would  not  be  easily  duped  by  any  designs 
upon  his  own. 

The  companion  of  the  personage  thus  sketched  might  be 
somewhere  about  seventeen;  but  his  gait,  his  air,  his  lithe, 
vigorous  frame,  showed  a  manliness  at  variance  with  the  boy- 
ish bloom  of  his  face.  He  struck  the  eye  much  more  than  his 
elder  comrade.  Not  that  he  was  regularly  handsome, —  far 
from  it;  yet  it  is  no  paradox  to  say  that  he  was  beautiful, — 
at  least,  few  indeed  were  the  women  who  would  not  have 
called  him  so.  His  hair,  long  like  his  friend's,  was  of  a  dark 
chestnut,  with  gold  gleaming  through  it  where  the  sun  fell, 
inclining  to  curl,  and  singularly  soft  and  silken  in  its  texture. 
His  large,  clear,  dark-blue,  happy  eyes  were  fringed  with 
long  ebon  lashes,  and  set  under  brows  which  already  wore  the 
expression  of  intellectual  power,  and,  better  still,  of  frank 
courage  and  open  loyalty.  His  complexion  was  fair,  and 
somewhat  pale,  and  his  lips  in  laughing  showed  teeth  exquis- 
itely white  and  even.  But  though  his  profile  was  clearly  cut, 
it  was  far  from  the  Greek  ideal;  and  he  wanted  the  height  of 
stature  which  is  usually  considered  essential  to  the  personal 
pretensions  of  the  male  sex.  Without  being  positively  short, 
he  was  still  under  middle  height,  and  from  the  compact  de- 
velopment of  his  proportions,  seemed  already  to  have  attained 
his  full  growth.  His  dress,  though  not  foreign,  like  his  com- 
rade's, was  peculiar :  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  with  a  wide 
blue  ribbon ;  shirt  collar  turned  down,  leaving  the  throat  bare ; 
a  dark-green  jacket  of  thinner  material  than  cloth;  white 
trousers  and  waistcoat  completed  his  costume.  He  looked 
like  a  mother's  darling, — perhaps  he  was  one. 

Scratch  across  his  back  went  one  of  those  ingenious  me- 
chanical contrivances  familiarly  in  vogue  at  fairs,  which  are 


4  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

designed  to  impress  upon  the  victim  to  whom  they  are  ap- 
plied, the  pleasing  conviction  that  his  garment  is  rent  in 
twain. 

The  boy  turned  round  so  quickly  that  he  caught  the  arm  of 
the  offender,— a  pretty  village-girl,  a  year  or  two  younger 
than  himself.  "Found  in  the  act,  sentenced,  punished," 
cried  he,  snatching  a  kiss,  and  receiving  a  gentle  slap.  "And 
now,  good  for  evil,  here  's  a  ribbon  for  you;  choose." 

The  girl  slunk  back  shyly,  but  her  companions  pushed 
her  forward,  and  she  ended  by  selecting  a  cherry-coloured 
ribbon,  for  which  the  boy  paid  carelessly,  while  his  elder 
and  wiser  friend  looked  at  him  with  grave,  compassionate 
rebuke,  and  grumbled  out,  — "  Dr.  Franklin  tells  us  that 
once  in  his  life  he  paid  too  dear  for  a  whistle ;  but  then  he 
was  only  seven  years  old,  and  a  whistle  has  its  uses.  But 
to  pay  such  a  price  for  a  scratch-back! — Prodigal!  Come 
along." 

As  the  friends  strolled  on,  naturally  enough  all  the  young 
girls  who  wished  for  ribbons,  and  were  possessed  of  scratch- 
backs,  followed  in  their  wake.  Scratch  went  the  instrument, 
but  in  vain. 

"Lasses,"  said  the  elder,  turning  sharply  upon  them  his 
nose  in  the  air,  "ribbons  are  plentiful, —  shillings  scarce; 
and  kisses,  though  pleasant  in  private,  are  insipid  in  public. 
What,  still!  Beware!  know  that,  innocent  as  we  seem,  we 
are  women-eaters;  and  if  you  follow  us  farther,  you  are  de- 
voured ! "  So  saying,  he  expanded  his  jaws  to  a  width  so 
preternaturally  large,  and  exhibited  a  row  of  grinders  so  for- 
midable, that  the  girls  fell  back  in  consternation.  The  friends 
turned  down  a  narrow  alley  between  the  booths,  and  though 
still  pursued  by  some  adventurous  and  mercenary  spirits, 
were  comparatively  undisturbed  as  they  threaded  their  way 
along  the  back  of  the  booths,  and  arrived  at  last  on  the  vil- 
lage-green, and  in  front  of  the  Great  Stage. 

"Oho,  Lionel!"  quoth  the  elder  friend;  "Thespian  and 
classical, — worth  seeing,  no  doubt."  Then  turning  to  a  grave 
cobbler  in  leathern  apron,  who  was  regarding  with  saturnine 
interest  the  motley  figures  ranged  in  front  of  the  curtain  as 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  5 

the  Dramatis  Personce,  he  said,  "You  seem  attracted,  sir; 
you  have  probably  already  witnessed  the  performance." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Cobbler;  "this  is  the  third  day,  and 
to-morrow 's  the  last.  I  are  n't  missed  once  yet,  and  I  sha'  n't 
miss ;  but  it  are  n't  what  it  was  a  while  back. '' 

"  That  is  sad ;  but  then  the  same  thing  is  said  of  everything 
by  everybody  who  has  reached  your  respectable  age,  friend. 
Summers,  and  suns,  stupid  old  watering-places,  and  pretty 
young  women,  'are  n't  what  they  were  a  while  back.'  If  men 
and  things  go  on  degenerating  in  this  way,  our  grandchildren 
will  have  a  dull  time  of  it." 

The  Cobbler  eyed  the  young  man,  and  nodded  approvingly. 
He  had  sense  enough  to  comprehend  the  ironical  philosophy 
of  the  reply ;  and  our  Cobbler  loved  talk  out  of  the  common 
way.  "  You  speaks  truly  and  cleverly,  sir.  But  if  old  folks 
do  always  say  that  things  are  worse  than  they  were,  ben't 
there  always  summat  in  what  is  always  said?  I  'm  for  the 
old  times;  my  neighbour,  Joe  Spruce,  is  for  the  new,  and 
says  we  are  all  a-progressing.  But  he  's  a  pink;  I  'm  a 
blue." 

"  You  are  a  blue?  "  said  the  boy  Lionel ;  "  I  don't  understand." 

"Young  'un,  I'm  a  Tory, — that's  blue;  and  Spruce  is  a 
Rad, — that's  pink!  And,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  he 
is  a  tailor,  and  I'm  a  cobbler." 

"  Aha !  "  said  the  elder,  with  much  interest ;  "  more  to  the 
purpose  is  it?  How  so?" 

The  Cobbler  put  the  forefinger  of  the  right  hand  on  the 
forefinger  of  the  left;  it  is  the  gesture  of  a  man  about  to  ra- 
tiocinate or  demonstrate,  as  Quintilian,  in  his  remarks  on  the 
oratory  of  fingers,  probably  observes;  or  if  he  has  failed  to 
do  so,  it  is  a  blot  in  his  essay. 

"You  see,  sir,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  "that  a  man's  business 
lias  a  deal  to  do  with  his  manner  of  thinking.  Every  trade, 
1  take  it,  has  ideas  as  belong  to  it.  Butchers  don't  see  life 
as  bakers  do;  and  if  you  talk  to  a  dozen  tallow-chandlers, 
then  to  a  dozen  blacksmiths,  you  will  see  tallow-chandlers 
are  peculiar,  and  blacksmiths  too." 

"You  are  a  keen   observer,"  said   he  of  the   jean   cap, 


6  WHAT  WILL   HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

admiringly;  "your  remark  is  new  to  me;  I  dare  say  it  is 
true." 

"Course  it  is;  and  the  stars  have  summat  to  do  with  it;  for 
if  they  order  a  man's  calling,  it  stands  to  reason  that  they 
order  a  man's  mind  to  fit  it.  Now,  a  tailor  sits  on  his  board 
with  others,  and  is  always  a-talking  with  'em,  and  a-reading 
the  news;  therefore  he  thinks,  as  his  fellows  do,  smart  and 
sharp,  bang  up  to  the  day,  but  nothing  'riginal  and  all  his 
own,  like.  But  a  cobbler,"  continued  the  man  of  leather,  with 
a  majestic  air,  "sits  by  hisself,  and  talks  with  hisself;  and 
what  he  thinks  gets  into  his  head  without  being  put  there  by 
another  man's  tongue." 

"You  enlighten  me  more  and  more,"  said  our  friend  with 
the  nose  in  the  air,  bowing  respectfully, —  "a  tailor  is  grega- 
rious, a  cobbler  solitary.  The  gregarious  go  with  the  future, 
the  solitary  stick  by  the  past.  I  understand  why  you  are  a 
Tory  and  perhaps  a  poet." 

"Well,  a  bit  of  one,"  said  the  Cobbler,  with  an  iron  smile. 
"And  many 's  the  cobbler  who  is  a  poet, — or  discovers  mar- 
vellous things  in  a  crystal, — whereas  a  tailor,  sir"  (spoken 
with  great  contempt),  "only  sees  the  upper  leather  of  the 
world's  sole  in  a  newspaper." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  pressure 
of  the  crowd  towards  the  theatre.  The  two  young  friends 
looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  new  object  of  attraction  was  a 
little  girl,  who  seemed  scarcely  ten  years  old,  though  in  truth 
she  was  about  two  years  older.  She  had  just  emerged  from 
behind  the  curtain,  made  her  obeisance  to  the  crowd,  and  was 
now  walking  in  front  of  the  stage  with  the  prettiest  possible 
air  of  infantine  solemnity.  "Poor  little  thing!  "  said  Lionel. 
"  Poor  little  thing ! "  said  the  Cobbler.  And  had  you  been 
there,  my  reader,  ten  to  one  but  you  would  have  said  the 
same.  And  yet  she  was  attired  in  white  satin,  with  spangled 
flounces  and  a  tinsel  jacket;  and  she  wore  a  wreath  of  flowers 
(to  be  sure,  the  flowers  were  not  real)  on  her  long  fair  curls, 
with  gaudy  bracelets  (to  be  sure,  the  stones  were  mock)  on 
her  slender  arms.  Still  there  was  something  in  her  that  all 
this  finery  could  not  vulgarize;  and  since  it  could  not  vul- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  7 

garize,  you  pitied  her  for  it.  She  had  one  of  those  charming 
faces  that  look  straight  into  the  hearts  of  us  all,  young  and 
old.  And  though  she  seemed  quite  self-possessed,  there  was 
no  effrontery  in  her  air,  but  the  ease  of  a  little  lady,  with 
a  simple  child's  unconsciousness  that  there  was  anything  in 
her  situation  to  induce  you  to  sigh,  "  Poor  thing !  " 

"You  should  see  her  act,  young  gents,"  said  the  Cobbler: 
"  she  plays  uncommon.  But  if  you  had  seen  him  as  taught 
her, —  seen  him  a  year  ago." 

"Who 'she?" 

"Waife,  sir;  mayhap  you  have  heard  speak  of  Waife?" 

"I  blush  to  say,  no." 

"  Why,  he  might  have  made  his  fortune  at  Common  Garden ; 
but  that 's  a  long  story.  Poor  fellow !  he 's  broke  down  now, 
anyhow.  But  she  takes  care  of  him,  little  darling:  God  bless 
thee ! "  and  the  Cobbler  here  exchanged  a  smile  and  a  nod 
with  the  little  girl,  whose  face  brightened  when  she  saw  him 
amidst  the  crowd. 

"  By  the  brush  and  pallet  of  Raphael !  "  cried  the  elder  of 
the  young  men,  "  before  I  am  many  hours  older  I  must  have 
that  child's  head!  •" 

"  Her  head,  man !  "  cried  the  Cobbler,  aghast. 

"In  my  sketch-book.  You  are  a  poet, —  I  a  painter.  You 
know  the  little  girl?" 

"Don't  I!  She  and  her  grandfather  lodge  with  me;  her 
grandfather, — that's  Waife, — marvellous  man!  But  they 
ill-uses  him ;  and  if  it  warn't  for  her,  he  'd  starve.  He  fed 
them  all  once :  he  can  feed  them  no  longer ;  he  'd  starve. 
That 's  the  world :  they  use  up  a  genus,  and  when  it  falls  on 
the  road,  push  on;  that 's  what  Joe  Spruce  calls  a-progressing. 
But  there  's  the  drum!  they  're  a-going  to  act;  won't  you  look 
in,  gents?" 

"Of  course,"  cried  Lionel, —  "of  course.  And,  hark  ye, 
Vance,  we  '11  toss  up  which  shall  be  the  first  to  take  that 
little  girl's  head." 

"Murderer  in  either  sense  of  the  word! "  said  Vance,  with 
a  smile  that  would  have  become  Correggio  if  a  tyro  had  offered 
to  toss  up  which  should  be  the  first  to  paint  a  cherub. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  historian  takes  a  view  of  the  British  stage  as  represented  by  the  irregular 
drama,  the  regular  having  (ere  the  date  of  the  events  to  which  this  narra- 
tive ia  restricted)  disappeared  from  the  vestiges  of  creation. 

THEY  entered  the  little  theatre,  and  the  Cobbler  with  them ; 
but  the  last  retired  modestly  to  the  threepenny  row.  The 
young  gentlemen  were  favoured  with  reserved  seats,  price 
one  shilling.  "Very  dear,"  murmured  Vance,  as  he  care- 
fully buttoned  the  pocket  to  which  he  restored  a  purse  woven 
from  links  of  steel,  after  the  fashion  of  chain  mail.  Ah, 
Messieurs  and  Confreres  the  Dramatic  Authors,  do  not  flatter 
yourselves  that  we  are  about  to  give  you  a  complacent  tri- 
umph over  the  Grand  Melodrame  of  "  The  Remorseless  Baron 
and  the  Bandit's  Child."  We  grant  it  was  horrible  rubbish, 
regarded  in  an  aesthetic  point  of  view,  but  it  was  mighty 
effective  in  the  theatrical.  Nobody  yawned ;  you  did  not  even 
hear  a  cough,  nor  the  cry  of  that  omnipresent  baby,  who  is 
always  sure  to  set  up  an  unappeasable  wail  in  the  midmost 
interest  of  a  classical  five-act  piece,  represented  for  the  first 
time  on  the  metropolitan  boards.  Here  the  story  rushed  on, 
per  fas  aut  nefas,  and  the  audience  went  with  it.  Certes, 
some  man  who  understood  the  stage  must  have  put  the  inci- 
dents together,  and  then  left  it  to  each  illiterate  histrio  to 
find  the  words, —  words,  my  dear  confreres,  signify  so  little  in 
an  acting  play.  The  movement  is  the  thing.  Grand  secret! 
Analyze,  practise  it,  and  restore  to  grateful  stars  that  lost 
Pleiad  the  British  Acting  Drama. 

Of  course  the  Bandit  was  an  ill-used  and  most  estimable 
man.  He  had  some  mysterious  rights  to  the  Estate  and  Cas- 
tle of  the  Remorseless  Baron.  That  titled  usurper,  therefore, 
did  all  in  his  power  to  hunt  the  Bandit  out  in  his  fastnesses 
and  bring  him  to  a  bloody  end.  Here  the  interest  centred 
itself  in  the  Bandit's  child,  who,  we  need  not  say,  was  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  9 

little  girl  in  the  wreath  and  spangles,  styled  in  the  playbill 
"Miss  Juliet  Araminta  Waife,"  and  the  incidents  consisted  in 
her  various  devices  to  foil  the  pursuit  of  the  Baron  and  save 
her  father.  Some  of  these  incidents  were  indebted  to  the 
Comic  Muse,  and  kept  the  audience  in  a  broad  laugh.  Her 
arch  playfulness  here  was  exquisite.  With  what  vivacity 
she  duped  the  High  Sheriff,  who  had  the  commands  of  his 
king  to  take  the  Bandit  alive  or  dead,  into  the  belief  that  the 
very  Lawyer  employed  by  the  Baron  was  the  criminal  in  dis- 
guise, and  what  pearly  teeth  she  showed  when  the  Lawyer 
was  seized  and  gagged!  how  dexterously  she  ascertained  the 
weak  point  in  the  character  of  the  "King's  Lieutenant" 
(jeune  premier),  who  was  deputed  by  his  royal  master  to  aid 
the  Remorseless  Baron  in  trouncing  the  Bandit!  how  cun- 
ningly she  learned  that  he  was  in  love  with  the  Baron's  ward 
(jeune  amoureuse),  whom  that  unworthy  noble  intended  to 
force  into  a  marriage  with  himself  on  account  of  her  fortune ! 
how  prettily  she  passed  notes  to  and  fro,  the  Lieutenant  never 
suspecting  that  she  was  the  Bandit's  child,  and  at  last  got 
the  king's  soldier  on  her  side,  as  the  event  proved !  And  oh, 
how  gayly,  and  with  what  mimic  art,  she  stole  into  the 
Baron's  castle,  disguised  as  a  witch,  startled  his  conscience 
with  revelations  and  predictions,  frightened  all  the  vassals 
with  blue  lights  and  chemical  illusions,  and  venturing  even 
into  the  usurper's  own  private  chamber,  while  the  tyrant  was 
tossing  restless  on  the  couch,  over  which  hung  his  terrible 
sword,  abstracted  from  his  coffer  the  deeds  that  proved  the 
better  rights  of  the  persecuted  Bandit!  Then,  when  he  woke 
before  she  could  escape  with  her  treasure,  and  pursued  her 
with  his  sword,  with  what  glee  she  apparently  set  herself  on 
fire,  and  skipped  out  of  the  casement  in  an  explosion  of  crack- 
ers! And  when  the  drama  approached  its  denouement,  when 
the  Baron's  men,  and  the  royal  officers  of  justice,  had,  de- 
spite all  her  arts,  tracked  the  Bandit  to  the  cave,  in  which, 
after  various  retreats,  he  lay  hidden,  wounded  by  shots,  and 
bruised  by  a  fall  from  a  precipice, — with  what  admirable  by- 
play she  hovered  around  the  spot,  with  what  pathos  she 
sought  to  decoy  away  the  pursuers !  it  was  the  skylark  play- 


10  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

ing  round  the  nest.  And  when  all  was  vain,  —  when,  no 
longer  to  be  deceived,  the  enemies  sought  to  seize  her,  how 
mockingly  she  eluded  them,  bounded  up  the  rock,  and  shook 
her  slight  finger  at  them  in  scorn!  Surely  she  will  save  that 
estimable  Bandit  still !  Now,  hitherto,  though  the  Bandit  was 
the  nominal  hero  of  the  piece,  though  you  were  always  hearing 
of  him, —  his  wrongs,  virtues,  hairbreadth  escapes, — he  had 
never  been  seen.  Not  Mrs.  Harris,  in  the  immortal  narrative, 
was  more  quoted  and  more  mythical.  But  in  the  last  scene 
there  was  the  Bandit,  there  in  his  cavern,  helpless  with  bruises 
and  wounds,  lying  on  a  rock.  In  rushed  the  enemies,  Baron, 
High  Sheriff,  and  all,  to  seize  him.  Not  a  word  spoke  the 
Bandit,  but  his  attitude  was  sublime, —  even  Vance  cried 
"  bravo ; "  and  just  as  he  is  seized,  halter  round  his  neck,  and 
about  to  be  hanged,  down  from  the  chasm  above  leaps  his 
child,  holding  the  title-deeds,  filched  from  the  Baron,  and  by 
her  side  the  King's  Lieutenant,  who  proclaims  the  Bandit's 
pardon,  with  due  restoration  to  his  honours  and  estates,  and 
consigns  to  the  astounded  Sheriff  the  august  person  of  the 
Remorseless  Baron.  Then  the  affecting  scene,  father  and 
child  in  each  other's  arms ;  and  then  an  exclamation,  which 
had  been  long  hovering  about  the  lips  of  many  of  the  audi- 
ence, broke  out,  "  Waif  e,  Waif e ! "  Yes,  the  Bandit,  who  ap- 
peared but  in  the  last  scene,  and  even  then  uttered  not  a 
word,  was  the  once  great  actor  on  that  itinerant  Thespian 
stage,  known  through  many  a  fair  for  his  exuberant  humour, 
his  impromptu  jokes,  his  arch  eye,  his  redundant  life  of  drol- 
lery, and  the  strange  pathos  or  dignity  with  which  he  could 
suddenly  exalt  a  jester's  part,  and  call  forth  tears  in  the  star- 
tled hush  of  laughter ;  he  whom  the  Cobbler  had  rightly  said, 
"might  have  made  a  fortune  at  Covent  Garden."  There  was 
the  remnant  of  the  old  popular  mime !  —  all  his  attributes  of 
eloquence  reduced  to  dumb  show !  Masterly  touch  of  nature 
and  of  art  in  this  representation  of  him,  — touch  which  all  who 
had  ever  in  former  years  seen  and  heard  him  on  that  stage 
felt  simultaneously.  He  came  in  for  his  personal  portion 
of  dramatic  tears.  "  Waife,  Waife ! "  cried  many  a  vil- 
lage voice,  as  the  little  girl  led  him  to  the  front  of  the  stage. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  11 

He  hobbled ;  there  was  a  bandage  round  his  eyes.  The  plot, 
in  describing  the  accident  that  had  befallen  the  Bandit,  ide- 
alized the  genuine  infirmities  of  the  man,  —  infirmities  that 
had  befallen  him  since  last  seen  in  that  village.  He  was 
blind  of  one  eye;  he  had  become  crippled;  some  malady  of 
the  trachea  or  larynx  had  seemingly  broken  up  the  once 
joyous  key  of  the  old  pleasant  voice.  He  did  not  trust  him- 
self to  speak,  even  on  that  stage,  but  silently  bent  his  head  to 
the  rustic  audience ;  and  Vance,  who  was  an  habitual  playgoer, 
saw  in  that  simple  salutation  that  the  man  was  an  artistic 
actor.  All  was  over,  the  audience  streamed  out,  much  affec- 
ted, and  talking  one  to  the  other.  It  had  not  been  at  all  like 
the  ordinary  stage  exhibitions  at  a  village  fair.  Vance  and 
Lionel  exchanged  looks  of  surprise,  and  then,  by  a  common 
impulse,  moved  towards  the  stage,  pushed  aside  the  curtain, 
which  had  fallen,  and  were  in  that  strange  world  which  has 
so  many  reduplications,  fragments  of  one  broken  mirror, 
whether  in  the  proudest  theatre  or  the  lowliest  barn, —  nay, 
whether  in  the  palace  of  kings,  the  cabinet  of  statesmen, 
the  home  of  domestic  life,  —  the  world  we  call  "  Behind  the 
Scenes." 


CHAPTER  III. 

STRIKING  illustrations  of  lawless  tyranny  and  infant  avarice  exemplified  in 
the  social  conditions  of  Great  Britain.  —  Superstitions  of  the  dark  ages  still 
in  force  amongst  the  trading  community,  furnishing  valuable  hints  to  cer- 
tain American  journalists,  and  highly  suggestive  of  reflections  humiliating 
to  the  national  vanity. 

THE  Remorseless  Baron,  who  was  no  other  than  the  ma- 
nagerial proprietor  of  the  stage,  was  leaning  against  a  side- 
scene  with  a  pot  of  porter  in  his  hand.  The  King's  Lieuten- 
ant might  be  seen  on  the  background,  toasting  a  piece  of 
cheese  on  the  point  of  his  loyal  sword.  The  Bandit  had  crept 


12  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

into  a  corner,  and  the  little  girl  was  clinging  to  him  fondly 
as  his  hand  was  stroking  her  fair  hair.  Vance  looked  round, 
and  approached  the  Bandit, —  "Sir,  allow  me  to  congratulate 
you ;  your  bow  was  admirable.  I  have  never  seen  John  Kem- 
ble ;  before  my  time :  but  I  shall  fancy  I  have  seen  him  now, 

—  seen  him  on  the  night  of  his  retirement  from  the  stage. 
As  to  your  grandchild,  Miss  Juliet  Araminta,  she  is  a  perfect 
chrysolite." 

Before  Mr.  Waife  could  reply,  the  Remorseless  Baron 
stepped  up  in  a  spirit  worthy  of  his  odious  and  arbitrary 
character.  "What  do  you  do  here,  sir?  I  allow  no  conspira- 
tors behind  the  scenes  earwigging  my  people." 

"I  beg  pardon  respectfully:  I  am  an  artist, —  a  pupil  of  the 
Royal  Academy;  I  should  like  to  make  a  sketch  of  Miss 
Juliet  Araminta." 

"Sketch!  nonsense." 

"Sir,"  said  Lionel,  with  the  seasonable  extravagance  of 
early  youth,  "my  friend  would,  I  am  sure,  pay  for  the  sitting 

—  handsomely ! " 

"Ha! "  said  the  manager,  softened,  "you  speak  like  a  gen- 
tleman, sir :  but,  sir,  Miss  Juliet  Araminta  is  under  my  pro- 
tection; in  fact,  she  is  my  property.  Call  and  speak  to  me 
about  it  to-morrow,  before  the  first  performance  begins,  which 
is  twelve  o'clock.  Happy  to  see  any  of  your  friends  in  the 
reserved  seats.  Busy  now,  and  —  and  —  in  short  —  excuse 
me  —  servant,  sir  —  servant,  sir." 

The  Baron's  manner  left  no  room  for  further  parley.  Vance 
bowed,  smiled,  and  retreated.  But  meanwhile  his  young 
friend  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  speak  both  to  Waife  and 
his  grandchild ;  and  when  Vance  took  his  arm  and  drew  him 
away,  there  was  a  puzzled,  musing  expression  on  Lionel's 
face,  and  he  remained  silent  till  they  had  got  through  the 
press  of  such  stragglers  as  still  loitered  before  the  stage,  and 
were  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  sward.  Stars  and  moon  were 
then  up, — a  lovely  summer  night. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  of,  Lionel?  I  have  put 
to  you  three  questions,  and  you  have  not  answered  one." 

"Vance,"    answered  Lionel,    slowly,    "the   oddest  thing! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  13 

I  am  so  disappointed  in  that  little  girl, —  greedy  and 
mercenary ! " 

"Precocious  villain!  how  do  you  know  that  she  is  greedy 
and  mercenary?  ' 

"  Listen :  when  that  surly  old  manager  came  up  to  you,  I 
said  something  —  civil,  of  course  —  to  Waife,  who  answered 
in  a  hoarse,  broken  voice,  but  in  very  good  language.  Well, 
when  I  told  the  manager  that  you  would  pay  for  the  sitting, 
the  child  caught  hold  of  my  arm  hastily,  pulled  me  down  to 
her  own  height,  and  whispered,  'How  much  will  he  give?' 
Confused  by  a  question  so  point-blank,  I  answered  at  random, 
'I  don't  know;  ten  shillings,  perhaps.'  You  should  have 
seen  her  face !  " 

"See  her  face!  radiant, —  I  should  think  so.  Too  much  by 
half!"  exclaimed  Vance.  "Ten  shillings!  Spendthrift!" 

"Too  much!  she  looked  as  you  might  look  if  one  offered 
you  ten  shillings  for  your  picture  of  'Julius  Caesar  consider- 
ing whether  he  should  cross  the  Kubicon.'  But  when  the 
manager  had  declared  her  to  be  his  property,  and  appointed 
you  to  call  to-morrow, —  implying  that  he  was  to  be  paid  for 
allowing  her  to  sit, — her  countenance  became  overcast,  and 
she  muttered  sullenly,  'I'll  not  sit;  I'll  not!'  Then  she 
turned  to  her  grandfather,  and  something  very  quick  and 
close  was  whispered  between  the  two ;  and  she  pulled  me  by 
the  sleeve,  and  said  in  my  ear  —  oh,  but  so  eagerly!  —  'I  want 
three  pounds,  sir, — three  pounds!  —  if  he  would  give  three 
pounds ;  and  come  to  our  lodgings,  —  Mr.  Merle,  Willow  Lane. 
Three  pounds, — three!,'  And  with  those  words  hissing  in 
my  ear,  and  coming  from  that  fairy  mouth,  which  ought  to 
drop  pearls  and  diamonds,  I  left  her, "  added  Lionel,  as  gravely 
as  if  he  were  sixty,  "  and  lost  an  illusion ! " 

"  Three  pounds ! "  cried  Vance,  raising  his  eyebrows  to  the 
highest  arch  of  astonishment,  and  lifting  his  nose  in  the  air 
towards  the  majestic  moon, —  "three  pounds!  —  a  fabulous 
sum!  Who  has  three  pounds  to  throw  away?  Dukes,  with  a 
hundred  thousand  a  year  in  acres,  have  not  three  pounds  to 
draw  out  of  their  pockets  in  that  reckless,  profligate  manner. 
Three  pounds!  —  what  could  I  not  buy  for  three  pounds?  I 


14  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

could  buy  the  Dramatic  Library,  bound  in  calf,  for  three 
pounds;  I  could  buy  a  dress  coat  for  three  pounds  (silk  lin- 
ing not  included);  I  could  be  lodged  for  a  month  for  three 
pounds !  And  a  jade  in  tinsel,  just  entering  on  her  teens,  to 
ask  three  pounds  for  what?  for  becoming  immortal  on  the 
canvas  of  Francis  Vance?  —  bother!" 

Here  Vance  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  round 
quickly,  as  a  man  out  of  temper  does  under  similar  circum- 
stances, and  beheld  the  swart  face  of  the  Cobbler. 

"Well,  master,  did  not  she  act  fine?  —  how  d'ye  like  her?" 

"  Not  much  in  her  natural  character ;  but  she  sets  a  mighty 
high  value  on  herself." 

"Anan,  I  don't  take  you." 

"  She  '11  not  catch  me  taking  her !  Three  pounds !  —  three 
kingdoms ! " 

"Stay,"  cried  Lionel  to  the  Cobbler;  "did  not  you  say  she 
lodged  with  you?  Are  you  Mr.  Merle?" 

"Merle's  my  name,  and  she  do  lodge  with  me, —  Willow 
Lane." 

"Come  this  way,  then,  a  few  yards  down  the  road, —  more 
quiet.  Tell  me  what  the  child  means,  if  you  can ; "  and  Li- 
onel related  the  offer  of  his  friend,  the  reply  of  the  man- 
ager, and  the  grasping  avarice  of  Miss  Juliet  Araminta. 

The  Cobbler  made  no  answer;  and  when  the  young  friends, 
surprised  at  his  silence,  turned  to  look  at  him,  they  saw  he 
was  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  sleeves. 

"Poor  little  thing! "  he  said  at  last,  and  still  more  pathet- 
ically than  he  had  uttered  the  same  words  at  her  appearance 
in  front  of  the  stage;  "  'tis  all  for  her  grandfather;  I  guess, 
—  I  guess." 

"Oh,"  cried  Lionel,  joyfully,  "I  am  so  glad  to  think  that. 
It  alters  the  whole  case,  you  see,  Vance." 

"It  don't  alter  the  case  of  the  three  pounds,"  grumbled 
Vance.  "  What 's  her  grandfather  to  me,  that  I  should  give 
his  grandchild  three  pounds,  when  any  other  child  in  the 
village  would  have  leaped  out  of  her  skin  to  have  her  face 
upon  my  sketch-book  and  five  shillings  in  her  pocket?  Hang 
her  grandfather!" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  15 

They  were  now  in  the  main  road.  The  Cobbler  seated  him- 
self on  a  lonely  milestone,  and  looked  first  at  one  of  the  faces 
before  him,  then  at  the  other;  that  of  Lionel  seemed  to  at- 
tract him  the  most,  and  in  speaking  it  was  Lionel  whom  he 
addressed. 

"  Young  master, "  he  said,  "  it  is  now  just  four  years  ago, 
when  Mr.  Kugge,  coming  here,  as  he  and  his  troop  had  done 
at  fair-time  ever  sin'  I  can  mind  of,  brought  with  him  the 
man  you  have  seen  to-night,  William  "Waife;  I  calls  him 
Gentleman  Waife.  However  that  man  fell  into  sich  straits, 
how  he  came  to  join  sich  a  carawan,  would  puzzle  most  heads. 
It  puzzles  Joe  Spruce,  uncommon;  it  don't  puzzle  me." 

"Why?"  asked  Vance. 

"Cos  of  Saturn!" 

"Satan?" 

"Saturn, —  dead  agin  his  Second  and  Tenth  House,  I'll 
swear.  Lord  of  Ascendant,  mayhap;  in  combustion  of  the 
Sun, — who  knows?" 

"You're  not  an  astrologer?"  said  Vance,  suspiciously, 
edging  off. 

"Bit  of  it;  no  offence." 

"What  does  it  signify?"  said  Lionel,  impatiently;  "go  on. 
So  you  called  Mr.  Waife  'Gentleman  Waife; '  and  if  you  had 
not  been  an  astrologer  you  would  have  been  puzzled  to  see 
him  in  such  a  calling." 

"Ay,  that's  it;  for  he  warn't  like  any  as  we  ever  see  on 
these  boards  hereabouts;  and  yet  he  warn't  exactly  like  a 
Lunnon  actor,  as  I  have  seen  'em  in  Lunnon,  either,  but  more 
like  a  clever  fellow  who  acted  for  the  spree  of  the  thing.  He 
had  sich  droll  jests,  and  looked  so  comical,  yet  not  common- 
like,  but  always  what  I  calls  a  gentleman, —  just  as  if  one  o' 
ye  two  were  doing  a  bit  of  sport  to  please  your  friends. 
Well,  he  drew  hugely,  and  so  he  did,  every  time  he  came,  so 
that  the  great  families  in  the  neighbourhood  would  go  to  hear 
him ;  and  he  lodged  in  my  house,  and  had  pleasant  ways  with 
him,  and  was  what  I  call  a  scollard.  But  still  I  don't  want 
to  deceive  ye,  and  I  should  judge  him  to  have  been  a  wild  dog 
in  his  day.  Mercury  ill-aspected,  —  not  a  doubt  of  it.  Last 


16  WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT? 

year  it  so  happened  that  one  of  the  great  gents  who  belong  to 
a  Luunon  theatre  was  here  at  fair-time.  Whether  he  had 
hi'.ird  of  Waife  chanceways,  and  come  express  to  judge  for 
hisself,  I  can't  say;  like  eno'.  And  when  he  had  seen  Gen- 
tleman Waife  act,  he  sent  for  him  to  the  inn  —  lied  Lion  — 
and  offered  him  a  power  o'  money  to  go  to  Lunnon, —  Com- 
mon Garden.  Well,  sir,  Waife  did  not  take  to  it  all  at  once, 
but  hemmed  and  hawed,  and  was  at  last  quite  coaxed  into  it, 
and  so  he  went.  But  bad  luck  came  on  it;  and  I  knew  there 
would,  for  I  saw  it  all  in  my  crystal." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Vance,  "a  crystal,  too;  really  it  is  getting 
late,  and  if  you  had  your  crystal  about  you,  you  might  see 
that  we  want  to  sup." 

"What  happened?"  asked  Lionel,  more  blandly,  for  he 
saw  the  Cobbler,  who  had  meant  to  make  a  great  effect  by 
the  introduction  of  the  crystal,  was  offended. 

"What  happened?  why,  just  what  I  foreseed.  There  was 
an  accident  in  the  railway  'tween  this  and  Lunnon,  and  poor 
Waife  lost  an  eye,  and  was  a  cripple  for  life :  so  he  could  not 
go  on  the  Lunnon  stage  at  all;  and  what  was  worse,  he  was  a 
long  time  atwixt  life  and  death,  and  got  summat  bad  on  his 
chest  wi'  catching  cold,  and  lost  his  voice,  and  became  the  sad 
object  you  have  gazed  on,  young  happy  things  that  ye  are." 

"But  he  got  some  compensation  from  the  railway,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  Vance,  with  the  unfeeling  equanimity  of  a 
stoical  demon. 

"  He  did,  and  spent  it.  I  suppose  the  gentleman  broke  out 
in  him  as  soon  as  he  had  money,  and,  ill  though  he  was,  the 
money  went.  Then  it  seems  he  had  no  help  for  it  but  to  try 
and  get  back  to  Mr.  Kugge.  But  Mr.  Kugge  was  sore  and 
spiteful  at  his  leaving;  for  Rugge  counted  on  him,  and  had 
even  thought  of  taking  the  huge  theatre  at  York,  and  bring- 
ing out  Gentleman  Waife  as  his  trump  card.  But  it  warn't 
fated,  and  Rugge  thought  himself  ill-used,  and  so  at  first  he 
would  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  Waife.  And  truth  is, 
what  could  the  poor  man  do  for  E-ugge?  But  then  Waife 
produces  little  Sophy." 

"You  mean  Juliet  Araminta?"  said  Vance. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  17 

"  Same  —  in  private  life  she  be  Sophy.  And  Waife  taught 
her  to  act,  and  put  together  the  plays  for  her.  And  Rugge 
caught  at  her;  and  she  supports  Waife  with  what  she  gets; 
for  Rugge  only  gives  him  four  shillings  a  week,  and  that 
goes  on  'baccy  and  such  like." 

"Suchlike  —  drink,  I  presume?"  said  Vance. 

"  No  —  he  don't  drink.  But  he  do  smoke,  and  he  has  little 
genteel  ways  with  him,  and  four  shillings  goes  on  'em.  And 
they  have  been  about  the  country  this  spring,  and  done  well, 
and  now  they  be  here.  But  Rugge  behaves  shocking  hard  to 
both  on  'em :  and  I  don't  believe  he  has  any  right  to  her  in 
law,  as  he  pretends, —  only  a  sort  of  understanding  which  she 
and  her  grandfather  could  break  if  they  pleased;  and  that's 
what  they  wish  to  do,  and  that 's  why  little  Sophy  wants  the 
three  pounds." 

"How?  "  cried  Lionel,  eagerly.  "If  they  had  three  pounds 
could  they  get  away?  and  if  they  did,  how  could  they  live? 
Where  could  they  go?" 

"That's  their  secret.  But  I  heard  Waife  say  —  the  first 
night  they  came  here  —  *  that  if  he  could  get  three  pounds,  he 
had  hit  on  a  plan  to  be  independent  like. '  I  tell  you  what 
put  his  back  up :  it  was  Rugge  insisting  on  his  coming  on  the 
stage  agin,  for  he  did  not  like  to  be  seen  such  a  wreck.  But 
he  was  forced  to  give  in ;  and  so  he  contrived  to  cut  up  that 
play-story,  and  appear  hisself  at  the  last  without  speaking." 

"My  good  friend,"  cried  young  Lionel,  "we  are  greatly 
obliged  to  you  for  your  story;  and  we  should  much  like  to 
see  little  Sophy  and  her  grandfather  at  your  house  to-morrow, 
—  can  we?" 

"Certain  sure  you  can,  after  the  play's  over;  to-night,  if 
you  like." 

"  No,  to-morrow :  you  see  my  friend  is  impatient  to  get  back 
now;  we  will  call  to-morrow." 

"  'T  is  the  last  day  of  their  stay,"  said  the  Cobbler.  "But 
you  can't  be  sure  to  see  them  safely  at  my  house  afore  ten 
o'clock  at  night;  and  not  a  word  to  Rugge!  mum!" 

"Not  a  word  to  Rugge,"  returned  Lionel;  "good-night  to 
you." 

VOL.  I.  —  2 


18  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

The  young  men  left  the  Cobbler  still  seated  on  the  mile- 
stone, gazing  on  the  stars  and  ruminating.  They  walked 
briskly  down  the  road. 

"It  is  I  who  have  had  the  talk  now,"  said  Lionel,  in  his 
softest  tone.  He  was  bent  on  coaxing  three  pounds  out  of 
his  richer  friend,  and  that  might  require  some  management. 
For  amongst  the  wild  youngsters  in  Mr.  Vance's  profession, 
there  ran  many  a  joke  at  the  skill  with  which  he  parried  ir- 
regular assaults  on  his  purse;  and  that  gentleman,  with  his 
nose  more  than  usually  in  the  air,  having  once  observed  to 
such  scoffers  "  that  they  were  quite  welcome  to  any  joke  at 
his  expense,"  a  wag  had  exclaimed,  "  At  your  expense !  Don't 
fear;  if  a  joke  were  worth  a  farthing,  you  would  never  give 
that  permission." 

So  when  Lionel  made  that  innocent  remark,  the  softness  of 
his  tone  warned  the  artist  of  some  snake  in  the  grass,  and  he 
prudently  remained  silent.  Lionel,  in  a  voice  still  sweeter, 
repeated, —  "It  is  I  who  have  all  the  talk  now! " 

"Naturally,"  then  returned  Vance,  "naturally  you  have, 
for  it  is  you,  I  suspect,  who  alone  have  the  intention  to  pay 
for  it,  and  three  pounds  appear  to  be  the  price.  Bearish,  eh?  " 

"  Ah,  Vance,  if  I  had  three  pounds ! " 

"  Tush ;  and  say  no  more  till  we  have  supped.  I  have  the 
hunger  of  a  wolf." 

Just  in  sight  of  the  next  milestone  the  young  travellers 
turned  a  few  yards  down  a  green  lane,  and  reached  a  small 
inn  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  Here  they  had  sojourned 
for  the  last  few  days,  sketching,  boating,  roaming  about  the 
country  from  sunrise,  and  returning  to  supper  and  bed  at 
nightfall.  It  was  the  pleasantest  little  inn, —  an  arbour,  cov- 
ered with  honeysuckle,  between  the  porch  and  the  river, — a 
couple  of  pleasure-boats  moored  to  the  bank;  and  now  all 
the  waves  rippling  under  the  moonlight. 

"Supper  and  lights  in  the  arbour,"  cried  Vance  to  the  wait- 
ing-maid, "  hey,  presto,  quick !  while  we  turn  in  to  wash  our 
hands.  And  hark !  a  quart  jug  of  that  capital  whiskey-toddy." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?        19 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BEING  a  chapter  that  links  the  past  to  the  future  by  the  gradual  elucida- 
tion of  antecedents. 

0  WAYSIDE  inns  and  pedestrian  rambles !  0  summer  nights, 
under  honeysuckle  arbours,  on  the  banks  of  starry  waves !  0 
Youth,  Youth! 

Vance  ladled  out  the  toddy  and  lighted  his  cigar;  then, 
leaning  his  head  on  his  hand  and  his  elbow  on  the  table,  he 
looked  with  an  artist's  eye  along  the  glancing  river. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  I  am  a  painter;  and  I 
hope  I  may  live  to  be  a  great  one." 

"No  doubt,  if  you  live,  you  will  be  a  great  one,"  cried 
Lionel,  with  cordial  sincerity.  "And  if  I,  who  can  only  just 
paint  well  enough  to  please  myself,  find  that  it  gives  a  new 
charm  to  Nature  — " 

"Cut  sentiment,-"  quoth  Vance,  "and  go  on." 

"What,"  continued  Lionel,  unchilled  by  the  admonitory 
interruption,  "must  you  feel  who  can  fix  a  fading  sunshine 
—  a  fleeting  face  —  on  a  scrap  of  canvas,  and  say  'Sunshine 
and  Beauty,  live  there  forever ! ' 3 

VANCE.  —  "Forever!  no!  Colours  perish,  canvas  rots. 
What  remains  to  us  of  Zeuxis?  Still  it  is  prettily  said  on 
behalf  of  the  poetic  side  of  the  profession :  there  is  a  prosaic 
one ;  we  '11  blink  it.  Yes ;  I  am  glad  to  be  a  painter.  But 
you  must  not  catch  the  fever  of  my  calling.  Your  poor 
mother  would  never  forgive  me  if  she  thought  I  had  made 
you  a  dauber  by  my  example." 

LIONEL  (gloomily).  —  "No.  I  shall  not  be  a  painter!  But 
what  can  I  be?  How  shall  I  ever  build  on  the  earth  one  of 
the  castles  I  have  built  in  the  air?  Fame  looks  so  far, — For- 
tune so  impossible.  But  one  thing  I  am  bent  upon  "  (speak- 
ing with  knit  brow  and  clenched  teeth),  "I  will  gain  an 
independence  somehow,  and  support  my  mother." 


20  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

VANCE.  — "  Your  mother  is  supported :  she  has  the  pen- 
siou  —  " 

LIONEL.  —  "Of  a  captain's  widow ;  and "  (he  added  with  a 
flushed  cheelO  "a  first  floor  that  she  lets  to  lodgers." 

VANCE.  —  "No  shame  in  that!  Peers  let  houses;  and  on 
the  Continent,  princes  let  not  only  first  floors,  but  fifth  and 
sixth  floors,  to  say  nothing  of  attics  and  cellars.  In  begin- 
ning the  world,  friend  Lionel,  if  you  don't  wish  to  get  chafed 
at  every  turn,  fold  up  your  pride  carefully,  put  it  under  lock 
and  key,  and  only  let  it  out  to  air  upon  grand  occasions. 
Pride  is  a  garment  all  stiff  brocade  outside,  all  grating  sack- 
cloth on  the  side  next  to  the  skin.  Even  kings  don't  wear 
the  dalmaticum  except  at  a  coronation.  Independence  you 
desire;  good.  But  are  you  dependent  now?  Your  mother 
has  given  you  an  excellent  education,  and  you  have  already 
put  it  to  profit.  My  dear  boy,"  added  Vance,  with  unusual 
warmth,  "I  honour  you;  at  your  age,  on  leaving  school,  to 
have  shut  yourself  up,  translated  Greek  and  Latin  per  sheet 
for  a  bookseller,  at  less  than  a  valet's  wages,  and  all  for  the 
purpose  of  buying  comforts  for  your  mother;  and  having  a 
few  pounds  in  your  own  pockets,  to  rove  your  little  holiday 
with  me  and  pay  your  share  of  the  costs!  Ah,  there  are 
energy  and  spirit  and  life  in  all  that,  Lionel,  which  will  found 
upon  rock  some  castle  as  fine  as  any  you  have  built  in  air. 
Your  hand,  my  boy." 

This  burst  was  so  unlike  the  practical  dryness,  or  even  the 
more  unctuous  humour,  of  Frank  Vance,  that  it  took  Lionel 
by  surprise,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  pressed  the  hand 
held  out  to  him.  He  answered,  "  I  don't  deserve  your  praise, 
Vance,  and  I  fear  the  pride  you  tell  me  to  put  under  lock  and 
key  has  the  larger  share  of  the  merit  you  ascribe  to  better 
motives.  Independent?  No!  I  have  never  been  so." 

VANCE.  —  "  Well,  you  depend  on  a  parent :  who,  at  seven- 
teen does  not?v 

LIONEL.  — "I  did  not  mean  my  mother;  of  course,  I  could 
not  be  too  proud  to  take  benefits  from  her.  But  the  truth  is 
simply  this  •  my  father  had  a  relation,  not  very  near,  indeed, 
—  a  cousin,  at  about  as  distant  a  remove,  I  fancy,  as  a  cousin 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  21 

well  can  be.  To  this  gentleman  my  mother  wrote  when  my 
poor  father  died;  and  he  was  generous,  for  it  is  he  who  paid 
for  my  schooling.  I  did  not  know  this  till  very  lately.  I 
had  a  vague  impression,  indeed,  that  I  had  a  powerful  and 
wealthy  kinsman  who  took  an  interest  in  me,  but  whom  I 
had  never  seen." 

VANCE.  —  "  Never  seen?  " 

LIONEL.  —  "  No.  And  here  comes  the  sting.  On  leaving 
school  last  Christmas,  my  mother,  for  the  first  time,  told  me 
the  extent  of  my  obligations  to  this  benefactor,  and  informed 
me  that  he  wished  to  know  my  own  choice  as  to  a  profession, 
—  that  if  I  preferred  Church  or  Bar,  he  would  maintain  me 
at  college." 

VANCE.  — "Body  o'  me!  where 's  the  sting  in  that?  Help 
yourself  to  toddy,  my  boy,  and  take  more  genial  views  of 
life." 

LIONEL.  —  "  You  have  not  heard  me  out.  I  then  asked  to 
see  my  benefactor's  letters;  and  my  mother,  unconscious  of 
the  pain  she  was  about  to  inflict,  showed  me  not  only  the  last 
one,  but  all  she  had  received  from  him.  Oh,  Vance,  they 
were  terrible,  those  letters !  The  first  began  by  a  dry  acqui- 
escence in  the  claims  of  kindred,  a  curt  proposal  to  pay  my 
schooling;  but  not  one  word  of  kindness,  and  a  stern  proviso 
that  the  writer  was  never  to  see  nor  hear  from  me.  He 
wanted  no  gratitude;  he  disbelieved  in  all  professions  of  it. 
His  favours  would  cease  if  I  molested  him.  'Molested '  was 
the  word;  it  was  bread  thrown  to  a  dog." 

VANCE.  —  " Tut!  Only  a  rich  man's  eccentricity.  A  bach- 
elor, I  presume?" 

LIONEL.  —  "  My  mother  says  he  has  been  married,  and  is  a 
widower." 

VANCE.  —  "  Any  children?  " 

LIONEL.  —  "  My  mother  says  none  living ;  but  I  know  little 
or  nothing  about  his  family." 

Vance  looked  with  keen  scrutiny  into  the  face  of  his  boy- 
friend, and,  after  a  pause,  said,  drily,  —  "  Plain  as  a  pike- 
staff. Your  relation  is  one  of  those  men  who,  having  no 
children,  suspect  and  dread  the  attention  of  an  heir  presump- 


22  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

live ;  and  what  has  made  this  sting,  as  you  call  it,  keener  to 
you  is  —  pardon  me  —  is  in  some  silly  words  of  your  mother, 
who,  in  showing  you  the  letters,  has  hinted  to  you  that  that 
heir  you  might  be,  if  you  were  sufficiently  pliant  and  subser- 
vient. Am  I  not  right?  " 

Lionel  hung  his  head,  without  reply. 

VANCE  (cheeringly).  —  "So,  so;  no  great  harm  as  yet. 
Enough  of  the  first  letter.  What  was  the  last?" 

LIONEL.  —  "  Still  more  offensive.  He,  this  kinsman,  this 
patron,  desired  my  mother  to  spare  him  those  references  to 
her  son's  ability  and  promise,  which,  though  natural  to  her- 
self, had  slight  interest  to  him,  —  him,  the  condescending 
benefactor!  As  to  his  opinion,  what  could  I  care  for  the 
opinion  of  one  I  had  never  seen?  All  that  could  sensibly 
affect  my  —  oh,  but  I  cannot  go  on  with  those  cutting  phrases, 
which  imply  but  this,  'All  I  can  care  for  is  the  money  of  a 
man  who  insults  me  while  he  gives  it. ' ': 

VANCE  (emphatically). —  "Without  being  a  wizard,  I  should 
say  your  relative  was  rather  a  disagreeable  person, — not 
what  is  called  urbane  and  amiable, —  in  fact,  a  brute." 

LIONEL. —  "You  will  not  blame  me,  then,  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  resolved  not  to  accept  the  offer  to  maintain  me  at  col- 
lege, with  which  the  letter  closed.  Luckily  Dr.  Wallis  (the 
head  master  of  my  school),  who  had  always  been  very  kind 
to  me,  had  just  undertaken  to  supervise  a  popular  translation 
of  the  classics.  He  recommended  me,  at  my  request,  to  the 
publisher  engaged  in  the  undertaking,  as  not  incapable  of 
translating  some  of  the  less  difficult  Latin  authors, —  subject 
to  his  corrections.  When  I  had  finished  the  first  instalment 
of  the  work  thus  intrusted  to  me,  my  mother  grew  alarmed 
for  my  health,  and  insisted  on  my  taking  some  recreation. 
You  were  about  to  set  out  on  a  pedestrian  tour.  I  had,  as 
you  say,  some  pounds  in  my  pocket;  and  thus  I  have  passed 
with  you  the  merriest  days  of  my  life." 

VANCE.  — "What  said  your  civil  cousin  when  your  refusal 
to  go  to  college  was  conveyed  to  him?" 

LIONEL.  —  "  He  did  not  answer  my  mother's  communication 
to  that  effect  till  just  before  I  left  home,  and  then, — no,  it 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  23 

was  not  his  last  letter  from  which  I  repeated  that  withering 
extract, — no,  the  last  was  more  galling  still,  for  in  it  he  said 
that  if,  in  spite  of  the  ability  and  promise  that  had  been  so 
vaunted,  the  dulness  of  a  college  and  the  labour  of  learned 
professions  were  so  distasteful  to  me,  he  had  no  desire  to  dic- 
tate to  my  choice,  but  that  as  he  did  not  wish  one  who  was, 
however  remotely,  of  his  blood,  and  bore  the  name  of  Haugh- 
ton,  to  turn  shoeblack  or  pickpocket  —  Vance  —  Vance !  " 

VANCE. — "  Lock  up  your  pride  —  the  sackcloth  frets  you — 
and  go  on;  and  that  therefore  he  — " 

LIONEL.  —  "  Would  buy  me  a  commission  in  the  army,  or 
get  me  an  appointment  in  India." 

VANCE.  —  "  Which  did  you  take?  " 

LIONEL  (passionately).  —  "Which!  so  offered,  —  which?  — 
of  course  neither !  But  distrusting  the  tone  of  my  mother's 
reply,  I  sat  down,  the  evening  before  I  left  home,  and  wrote 
myself  to  this  cruel  man.  I  did  not  show  my  letter  to  my 
mother, — did  not  tell  her  of  it.  I  wrote  shortly, — that  if 
he  would  not  accept  my  gratitude,  I  would  not  accept  his 
benefits ;  that  shoeblack  I  might  be, — pickpocket,  no!  that  he 
need  not  fear  I  should  disgrace  his  blood  or  my  name ;  and 
that  I  would  not  rest  till,  sooner  or  later,  I  had  paid  him 
back  all  that  I  had  cost  him,  and  felt  relieved  from  the  bur- 
dens of  an  obligation  which  —  which  —  "  The  boy  paused, 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sobbed. 

Vance,  though  much  moved,  pretended  to  scold  his  friend, 
but  finding  that  ineffectual,  fairly  rose,  wound  his  arm 
brother-like  round  him,  and  drew  him  from  the  arbour  to  the 
shelving  margin  of  the  river.  "Comfort,"  then  said  the  Ar- 
tist, almost  solemnly,  as  here,  from  the  inner  depths  of  his 
character,  the  true  genius  of  the  man  came  forth  and  spoke, 
—  "comfort,  and  look  round j  see  where  the  islet  interrupts 
the  tide,  and  how  smilingly  the  stream  flows  on.  See,  just 
where  we  stand,  how  the  slight  pebbles  are  fretting  the  wave: 
would  the  wave  if  not  fretted  make  that  pleasant  music? 
A  few  miles  farther  on,  and  the  river  is  spanned  by  a  bridge, 
which  busy  feet  now  are  crossing;  by  the  side  of  that  bridge 
now  is  rising  a  palace ;  all  the  men  who  rule  England  have 


24  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

room  in  that  palace.  At  the  rear  of  the  palace  soars  up  the 
old  Abbey  where  kings  have  their  tombs  in  right  of  the  names 
they  inherit;  men,  lowly  as  we,  have  found  tombs  there,  in 
right  of  the  names  which  they  made.  Think,  now,  that  you 
stand  on  that  bridge  with  a  boy's  lofty  hope,  with  a  man's 
steadfast  courage ;  then  turn  again  to  that  stream,  calm  with 
starlight,  flowing  on  towards  the  bridge,  —  spite  of  islet  and 
pebbles." 

Lionel  made  no  audible  answer,  though  his  lips  murmured, 
but  he  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  his  friend's  side;  and 
the  tears  were  already  dried  on  his  cheek,  though  their  dew 
still  glistened  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SPECULATIONS  on  the  moral  qualities  of  the  Bandit.  —  Mr.  Vance,  with  min- 
gled emotions,  foresees  that  the  acquisition  of  the  Bandit's  acquaintance 
may  be  attended  with  pecuniary  loss. 

VANCE  loosened  the  boat  from  its  moorings,  stepped  in,  and 
took  up  the  oars.  Lionel  followed,  and  sat  by  the  stern. 
The  Artist  rowed  on  slowly,  whistling  melodiously  in  time  to 
the  dash  of  the  oars.  They  soon  came  to  the  bank  of  garden- 
ground  surrounding  with  turf  on  which  fairies  might  have 
danced  one  of  those  villas  never  seen  out  of  England.  From 
the  windows  of  the  villa  the  lights  gleamed  steadily;  over 
the  banks,  dipping  into  the  water,  hung  large  willows  breath- 
lessly; the  boat  gently  brushed  aside  their  pendent  boughs, 
and  Vance  rested  in  a  grassy  cove. 

"And  faith,"  said  the  Artist,  gayly, —  "faith,"  said  he, 
lighting  his  third  cigar,  "  it  is  time  we  should  bestow  a  few 
words  more  on  the  Remorseless  Baron  and  the  Bandit's  Child ! 
What  a  cock-and-a-bull  story  the  Cobbler  told  us !  He  must 
have  thought  us  precious  green." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  25 

LIONEL  (roused). — "Nay,  I  see  nothing  so  wonderful  in 
the  story,  though  much  that  is  sad.  You  must  allow  that 
Waif e  may  have  been  a  good  actor :  you  became  quite  excited 
merely  at  his  attitude  and  bow.  Natural,  therefore,  that  he 
should  have  been  invited  to  try  his  chance  on  the  London 
stage ;  not  improbable  that  he  may  have  met  with  an  accident 
by  the  train,  and  so  lost  his  chance  forever;  natural,  then, 
that  he  should  press  into  service  his  poor  little  grandchild, — 
natural,  also,  that,  hardly  treated  and  his  pride  hurt,  he 
should  wish  to  escape." 

VANCE.  —  "  And  more  natural  than  all  that  he  should  want 
to  extract  from  our  pockets  three  pounds,  the  Bandit!  No, 
Lionel,  I  tell  you  what  is  not  probable,  that  he  should  have 
disposed  of  that  clever  child  to  a  vagabond  like  Rugge :  she 
plays  admirably.  The  manager  who  was  to  have  engaged 
him  would  have  engaged  her  if  he  had  seen  her.  I  am 
puzzled," 

LIONEL.  —  "  True,  she  is  an  extraordinary  child.  I  cannot 
say  how  she  has  interested  me."  He  took  out  his  purse,  and 
began  counting  its  contents.  "I  have  nearly  three  pounds 
left,"  he  cried  joyously.  "21.  18s.  if  I  give  up  the  thought 
of  a  longer  excursion  with  you,  and  go  quietly  home  —  " 

VANCE.  —  "And  not  pay  your  share  of  the  bill  yonder? " 

LIONEL.  —  "  Ah,  I  forgot  that !  But  come,  I  am  not  too 
proud  to  borrow  from  you:  it  is  not  for  a  selfish  purpose." 

VANCE.  —  "  Borrow  from  me,  Cato !  That  comes  of  falling 
in  with  bandits  and  their  children.  No ;  but  let  us  look  at 
the  thing  like  men  of  sense.  One  story  is  good  till  another 
is  told.  I  will  call  by  myself  on  Rugge  to-morrow,  and  hear 
what  he  says ;  and  then,  if  we  judge  favourably  of  the  Cob- 
bler's version,  we  will  go  at  night  and  talk  with  the  Cob- 
bler's lodgers;  and  I  dare  say,"  added  Vance,  kindly,  but 
with  a  sigh, —  "  I  daresay  the  three  pounds  will  be  coaxed  out 
of  me !  After  all,  her  head  is  worth  it.  I  want  an  idea  for 
Titania." 

LIONEL  (joyously). — "My  dear  Vance,  you  are  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world." 


26  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

VANCE.  —  "Small  compliment  to  humankind!  Take  the 
t>ars:  it  is  your  turn  now." 

Lionel  obeyed ;  the  boat  once  more  danced  along  the  tide  — 
thoro'  reeds,  thoro'  waves,  skirting  the  grassy  islet  —  out  into 
pale  moonlight.  They  talked  but  by  fits  and  starts.  What 
of?  —  a  thousand  things !  Bright  young  hearts,  eloquent  young 
tongues  !  No  sins  in  the  past ;  hopes  gleaming  through  the 
future.  0  summer  nights,  on  the  glass  of  starry  waves !  0 
Youth,  Youth! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEREIN  the  historian  tracks  the  public  characters  that  fret  their  hour  on 
the  stage,  into  the  bosom  of  private  life.  —  The  reader  is  invited  to  arrive 
at  a  conclusion  which  may  often,  in  periods  of  perplexity,  restore  ease  to 
his  mind ;  namely,  that  if  man  will  reflect  on  all  the  hopes  he  has  nourished, 
all  the  fears  he  has  admitted,  all  the  projects  he  has  formed,  the  wisest 
thing  he  can  do,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  with  hope,  fear,  and  project,  is  to 
let  them  end  with  the  chapter  —  in  smoke. 

IT  was  past  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  following 
day.  The  exhibition  at  Mr.  Rugge's  theatre  had  closed  for 
the  season  in  that  village,  for  it  was  the  conclusion  of  the 
fair.  The  final  performance  had  been  begun  and  ended  some- 
what earlier  than  on  former  nights.  The  theatre  was  to  be 
cleared  from  the  ground  by  daybreak,  and  the  whole  company 
to  proceed  onward  betimes  in  the  morning.  Another  fair 
awaited  them  in  an  adjoining  county,  and  they  had  a  long 
journey  before  them. 

Gentleman  Waife  and  his  Juliet  Araminta  had  gone  to 
their  lodgings  over  the  Cobbler's  stall.  Their  rooms  were 
homely  enough,  but  had  an  air  not  only  of  the  comfortable, 
but  the  picturesque.  The  little  sitting-room  was  very  old- 
fashioned, —  panelled  in  wood  that  had  once  been  painted 
blue,  with  a  quaint  chimneypiece  that  reached  to  the  ceiling. 
That  part  of  the  house  spoke  of  the  time  of  Charles  I.  It 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  27 

might  have  been  tenanted  by  a  religious  Koundhead;  and, 
framed-in  over  the  low  door,  there  was  a  grim,  faded  portrait 
of  a  pinched-faced  saturnine  man,  with  long  lank  hair, 
starched  band,  and  a  length  of  upper  lip  that  betokened  re- 
lentless obstinacy  of  character,  and  might  have  curled  in 
sullen  glee  at  the  monarch's  scaffold,  or  preached  an  inter- 
minable sermon  to  the  stout  Protector.  On  a  table,  under 
the  deep-sunk  window,  were  neatly  arrayed  a  few  sober-look- 
ing old  books ;  you  would  find  amongst  them  Colley 's  "  Astrol- 
ogy," Owen  Feltham's  "Resolves,"  Glanville  "On  Witches," 
the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  an  early  edition  of  "Paradise  Lost," 
and  an  old  Bible ;  also  two  flower-pots  of  clay  brightly  red- 
dened, and  containing  stocks;  also  two  small  worsted  rugs, 
on  one  of  which  rested  a  carved  cocoa-nut,  on  the  other  an 
egg-shaped  ball  of  crystal, — that  last  the  pride  and  joy  of  the 
cobbler's  visionary  soul.  A  door  left  wide  open  communi- 
cated with  an  inner  room  (very  low  was  its  ceiling),  in  which 
the  Bandit  slept,  if  the  severity  of  his  persecutors  permitted 
him  to  sleep.  In  the  corner  of  the  sitting-room,  near  that 
door,  was  a  small  horsehair  sofa,  which,  by  the  aid  of  sheets 
and  a  needlework  coverlid,  did  duty  for  a  bed,  and  was  con- 
signed to  the  Bandit's  child.  Here  the  tenderness  of  the 
Cobbler's  heart  was  visible,  for  over  the  coverlid  were  strewed 
sprigs  of  lavender  and  leaves  of  vervain;  the  last,  be  it  said, 
to  induce  happy  dreams,  and  scare  away  witchcraft  and  evil 
spirits.  On  another  table,  near  the  fireplace,  the  child  was 
busied  in  setting  out  the  tea-things  for  her  grandfather.  She 
had  left  in  the  property-room  of  the  theatre  her  robe  of  span- 
gles and  tinsel,  and  appeared  now  in  a  simple  frock.  She 
had  no  longer  the  look  of  Titania,  but  that  of  a  lively,  active, 
affectionate  human  child ;  nothing  theatrical  about  her  now, 
yet  still,  in  her  graceful  movements,  so  nimble  but  so  noise- 
less, in  her  slight  fair  hands,  in  her  transparent  colouring, 
there  was  Nature's  own  lady, —  that  something  which  strikes 
us  all  as  well-born  and  high-bred:  not  that  it  necessarily  is 
so;  the  semblances  of  aristocracy,  in  female  childhood  more 
especially,  are  often  delusive.  The  souvenance  flower,  wrought 
into  the  collars  of  princes,  springs  up  wild  on  field  and  fell. 


28  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Gentleman  Waife,  wrapped  negligently  in  a  gray  dressing- 
gown  and  seated  in  an  old  leathern  easy-chair,  was  evidently 
out  of  sorts.  He  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  little  preparations 
for  his  comfort,  but,  resting  his  cheek  on  his  right  hand,  his 
left  drooped  on  his  crossed  knees, — an  attitude  rarely  seen  in 
a  man  when  his  heart  is  light  and  his  spirits  high.  His  lips 
moved :  he  was  talking  to  himself.  Though  he  had  laid  aside 
his  theatrical  bandage  over  both  eyes,  he  wore  a  black  patch 
over  one,  or  rather  where  one  had  been ;  the  eye  exposed  was 
of  singular  beauty,  dark  and  brilliant.  For  the  rest,  the  man 
had  a  striking  countenance,  rugged,  and  rather  ugly  than 
otherwise,  but  by  no  means  unprepossessing;  full  of  lines 
and  wrinkles  and  strong  muscle,  with  large  lips  of  wondrous 
pliancy,  and  an  aspect  of  wistful  sagacity,  that,  no  doubt,  on 
occasion  could  become  exquisitely  comic, — dry  comedy, — 
the  comedy  that  makes  others  roar  when  the  comedian  him- 
self is  as  grave  as  a  judge. 

You  might  see  in  his  countenance,  when  quite  in  its  natural 
repose,  that  Sorrow  had  passed  by  there ;  yet  the  instant  the 
countenance  broke  into  play,  you  would  think  that  Sorrow 
must  have  been  sent  about  her  business  as  soon  as  the  respect 
due  to  that  visitor,  so  accustomed  to  have  her  own  way,  would 
permit.  Though  the  man  was  old,  you  could  not  call  him 
aged.  One-eyed  and  crippled,  still,  marking  the  muscular 
arm,  the  expansive  chest,  you  would  have  scarcely  called 
him  broken  or  infirm.  And  hence  there  was  a  certain 
indescribable  pathos  in  his  whole  appearance,  as  if  Fate 
had  branded,  on  face  and  form,  characters  in  which  might 
be  read  her  agencies  on  career  and  mind, — plucked  an  eye 
from  intelligence,  shortened  one  limb  for  life's  progress, 
yet  left  whim  sparkling  out  in  the  eye  she  had  spared,  and 
a  light  heart's  wild  spring  in  the  limb  she  had  maimed 
not. 

"Come,  Grandy,  come,"  said  the  little  girl,  coaxingly; 
"your  tea  will  get  quite  cold;  your  toast  is  ready,  and  here 
is  such  a  nice  egg;  Mr.  Merle  says  you  may  be  sure  it  is  new 
laid.  Come,  don't  let  that  hateful  man  fret  you:  smile  on 
your  own  Sophy;  come." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  29 

" If, "  said  Mr.  Waif e,  in  a  hollow  undertone,  —  "if  I  were 
alone  in  the  world  — " 
"Oh,  Grandy!" 

" '  I  know  a  spot  on  which  a  bed-post  grows, 
And  do  remember  where  a  roper  lives.' 

Delightful  prospect,  not  to  be  indulged;  for  if  I  were  in 
peace  at  one  end  of  the  rope,  what  would  chance  to  my  Sophy, 
left  forlorn  at  the  other?  " 

"  Don't  talk  so,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  sorry  to  have  taken 
care  of  ine." 

"Care  of  thee,  oh,  child!  and  what  care?  It  is  thou  who 
takest  care  of  me.  Put  thy  hands  from  thy  mouth;  sit  down, 
darling,  there,  opposite,  and  let  us  talk.  Now,  Sophy,  thou 
hast  often  said  that  thou  wouldst  be  glad  to  be  out  of  this 
mode  of  life,  even  for  one  humbler  and  harder:  think  well, 
is  it  so?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  grandfather." 

"  No  more  tinsel  dresses  and  flowery  wreaths ;  no  more  ap- 
plause; no  more  of  the  dear  divine  stage  excitement;  the 
heroine  and  fairy  vanished ;  only  a  little  commonplace  child 
in  dingy  gingham,  with  a  purblind  cripple  for  thy  sole  charge 
and  playmate;  Juliet  Araminta  evaporated  evermore  into 
little  Sophy!" 

"  It  would  be  so  nice ! "  answered  little  Sophy,  laughing 
merrily. 

"What  would  make  it  nice?"  asked  the  Comedian,  turning 
on  her  his  solitary  piercing  eye,  with  curious  interest  in  his 
gaze. 

Sophy  left  her  seat,  and  placed  herself  on  a  stool  at  her 
grandfather's  knee;  on  that  knee  she  clasped  her  tiny  hands, 
and  shaking  aside  her  curls,  looked  into  his  face  with  confi- 
dent fondness.  Evidently  these  two  were  much  more  than 
grandfather  and  grandchild:  they  were  friends,  they  were 
equals,  they  were  in  the  habit  of  consulting  and  prattling 
with  each  other.  She  got  at  his  meaning,  however  covert  his 
humour;  and  he  to  the  core  of  her  heart,  through  its  careless 
babble.  Between  you  and  me,  Reader,  I  suspect  that,  in  spite 


30  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

of  the  Comedian's  sagacious  wrinkles,  the  one  was  as  much  a 
child  as  the  other. 

"Well,"  said  Sophy,  "I  will  tell  you,  Grandy,  what  would 
make  it  nice:  no  one  would  vex  and  affront  you, —  we  should 
be  all  by  ourselves;  and  then,  instead  of  those  nasty  lamps 
and  those  dreadful  painted  creatures,  we  could  go  out  and 
play  in  the  fields  and  gather  daisies;  and  I  could  run  after 
butterflies,  and  when  I  am  tired  I  should  come  here,  where  I 
am  now,  any  time  of  the  day,  and  you  would  tell  me  stories 
and  pretty  verses,  and  teach  me  to  write  a  little  better  than  I 
do  now,  and  make  such  a  wise  little  woman  of  me ;  and  if  I 
wore  gingham  —  but  it  need  not  be  dingy,  Grandy  —  it  would 
be  all  mine,  and  you  would  be  all  mine  too,  and  we  'd  keep 
a  bird,  and  you'd  teach  it  to  sing;  and  oh,  would  it  not 
be  nice ! " 

"But  still,  Sophy,  we  should  have  to  live,  and  we  could  not 
live  upon  daisies  and  butterflies.  And  I  can't  work  now ;  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  never  could  work :  more  shame  for  me, 
but  so  it  is.  Merle  says  the  fault  is  in  the  stars, — with  all 
my  heart.  But  the  stars  will  not  go  to  the  jail  or  the  work- 
house instead  of  me.  And  though  they  want  nothing  to  eat, 
we  do." 

"But,  Grandy,  you  have  said  every  day  since  the  first  walk 
you  took  after  coming  here,  that  if  you  had  three  pounds,  we 
could  get  away  and  live  by  ourselves  and  make  a  fortune ! " 

"  A  fortune !  —  that 's  a  strong  word :  let  it  stand.  A  for- 
tune! But  still,  Sophy,  though  we  should  be  free  of  this 
thrice-execrable  Rugge,  the  scheme  I  have  in  my  head  lies 
remote  from  daisies  and  butterflies.  We  should  have  to 
dwell  in  towns  and  exhibit ! " 

"On  a  stage,  Grandy?"  said  Sophy,  resigned,  but  sorrow- 
ful. 

"No,  not  exactly:  a  room  would  do." 

"  And  I  should  not  wear  those  horrid,  horrid  dresses,  nor 
mix  with  those  horrid,  horrid  painted  people." 

"No." 

"And  we  should  be  quite  alone,  you  and  I?" 

"Hum!  there  would  be  a  third." 


31 

"  Oh,  Grandy,  Grandy !  "  cried  Sophy,  in  a  scream  of  shrill 
alarm.  "I  know,  I  know;  you  are  thinking  of  joining  us 
with  the  Pig-faced  Lady ! " 

MR,  WAIFE  (not  a  muscle  relaxed).  —  "A  well-spoken  and 
pleasing  gentlewoman.  But  no  such  luck:  three  pounds 
would  not  buy  her." 

SOPHY.  —  "  I  am  glad  of  that :  I  don't  care  so  much  for  the 
Mermaid;  she  's  dead  and  stuffed.  But,  oh! "  (another  scream) 
"perhaps  'tis  the  Spotted  Boy?" 

MB.  WAIFE.  —  "  Calm  your  sanguine  imagination ;  you  as- 
pire too  high !  But  this  I  will  tell  you,  that  our  companion, 
whatsoever  or  whosoever  that  companion  may  be,  will  be  one 
you  will  like." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Sophy,  shaking  her  head.  "I 
only  like  you.  But  who  is  it?" 

"Alas!"  said  Mr.  Waife,  "it  is  no  use  pampering  our- 
selves with  vain  hopes:  the  three  pounds  are  not  forthcom- 
ing. You  heard  what  that  brute  Rugge  said,  that  the  gentle- 
man who  wanted  to  take  your  portrait  had  called  on  him  this 
morning,  and  offered  10s.  for  a  sitting, — that  is,  5s.  for  you, 
5s.  for  Rugge;  and  Rugge  thought  the  terms  reasonable." 

"But  I  said  I  would  not  sit." 

"  And  when  you  did  say  it,  you  heard  Rugge's  language  to 
me  —  to  you.  And  now  you  must  think  of  packing  up,  and 
be  off  at  dawn  with  the  rest.  And,"  added  the  comedian, 
colouring  high,  "I  must  again  parade,  to  boors  and  clowns, 
this  mangled  form;  again  set  myself  out  as  a  spectacle  of 
bodily  infirmity, — man's  last  degradation.  And  this  I  have 
come  to  —  I ! " 

"No,  no,  Grandy,  it  will  not  last  long!  we  will  get  the 
three  pounds.  We  have  always  hoped  on !  —  hope  still ! 
And,  besides,  I  am  sure  those  gentlemen  will  come  here  to- 
night. Mr.  Merle  said  they  would,  at  ten  o'clock.  It  is 
near  ten  now,  and  your  tea  cold  as  a  stone." 

She  hung  on  his  neck  caressingly,  kissing  his  furrowed 
brow,  and  leaving  a  tear  there,  and  thus  coaxed  him  till  he 
set-to  quietly  at  his  meal ;  and  Sophy  shared  it  —  though  she 
had  no  appetite  in  sorrowing  for  him  —  but  to  keep  him  com- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

pany ;  that  done,  she  lighted  his  pipe  with  the  best  canaster, 
—  his  sole  luxury  and  expense ;  but  she  always  contrived  that 
he  should  afford  it. 

Mr.  Waife  drew  a  long  whiff,  and  took  a  more  serene  view 
of  affairs.  He  who  doth  not  smoke  hath  either  known  no 
great  griefs,  or  refuseth  himself  the  softest  consolation,  next 
to  that  which  comes  from  Heaven.  "What,  softer  than 
woman?  "  whispers  the  young  reader.  Young  reader,  woman 
teases  as  well  as  consoles.  Woman  makes  half  the  sorrows 
which  she  boasts  the  privilege  to  soothe.  Woman  consoles 
us,  it  is  true,  while  we  are  young  and  handsome!  when  we 
are  old  and  ugly,  woman  snubs  and  scolds  us.  On  the  whole, 
then,  woman  in  this  scale,  the  weed  in  that,  Jupiter,  hang 
out  thy  balance,  and  weigh  them  both ;  and  if  thou  give  the 
preference  to  woman,  all  I  can  say  is,  the  next  time  Juno 
ruffles  thee, —  0  Jupiter,  try  the  weed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  historian,  in  pursuance  of  his  stern  duties,  reveals  to  the  scorn  of  future 
ages  some,  of  the  occult  practices  which  discredit  the  march  of  light  in  the 
nineteenth  century. 

"MAT  I  come  in?"  asked  the  Cobbler,  outside  the  door. 

"  Certainly  come  in, "  said  Gentleman  Waife.  Sophy  looked 
wistfully  at  the  aperture,  and  sighed  to  see  that  Merle  was 
alone.  She  crept  up  to  him. 

"Will  they  not  come? "  she  whispered. 

"I  hope  so,  pretty  one;  it  be  n't  ten  yet." 

"Take  a  pipe,  Merle,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  with  a  Grand 
Comedian  'air. 

"  No,  thank  you  kindly ;  I  just  looked  in  to  ask  if  I  could 
do  anything  for  ye,  in  case  —  in  case  ye  must  go  to- 
morrow." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  33 

"Nothing:  our  luggage  is  small,  and  soon  packed.  Sophy 
has  the  money  to  discharge  the  meaner  part  of  our  debt  to 
you. " 

"  I  don't  value  that, "  said  the  Cobbler,  colouring. 

"But  we  value  your  esteem,"  said  Mr.  Waife,  with  a  smile 
that  would  have  become  a  field-marshal.  "And  so,  Merle, 
you  think,  if  I  am  a  broken-down  vagrant,  it  must  be  put  to 
the  long  account  of  the  celestial  bodies!" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  returned  the  Cobbler,  solemnly.  "I 
wish  you  would  give  me  date  and  place  of  Sophy's  birth: 
that's  what  I  want;  I'd  take  her  horryscope.  I'm  sure 
she  'd  be  lucky." 

"I  'd  rather  not,  please,"  said  Sophy,  timidly. 

" Kather  not?  —  very  odd.     Why?  " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  the  future." 

"That  is  odder  and  odder,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  staring;  "I 
never  heard  a  girl  say  that  afore." 

"Wait  till  she's  older,  Mr.  Merle,"  said  Waife:  "girls 
don't  want  to  know  the  future  till  they  want  to  be  married." 

"Summat  in  that,"  said  the  Cobbler.  He  took  up  the 
crystal.  "Have  you  looked  into  this  ball,  pretty  one,  as  I 
bade  ye?" 

"Yes,  two  or  three  times." 

"Ha!  and  what  did  you  see? " 

"  My  own  face  made  very  long, "  said  Sophy,  —  "  as  long  as 
that  — , "  stretching  out  her  hands. 

The  Cobbler  shook  his  head  dolefully,  and  screwing  up  one 
eye,  applied  the  other  to  the  mystic  ball. 

MR.  WAIFE.  —  "  Perhaps  you  will  see  if  those  two  gentle- 
men are  coming." 

SOPHY.  —  "  Do,  do !  and  if  they  will  give  us  three  pounds !  " 

COBBLER  (triumphantly).  —  "Then  you  do  care  to  know 
the  future,  after  all?" 

SOPHY.  — "  Yes,  so  far  as  that  goes ;  but  don't  look  any 
further,  pray." 

COBBLER  (intent  upon  the  ball,  and  speaking  slowly,  and 
in  jerks). — "A  mist  now.  Ha!  an  arm  with  a  besom  — 
sweeps  all  before  it." 

VOL.  I.  —  3 


34 

SOPHY  (frightened).  — "Send  it  away,  please." 

COBBLER.  —  "  It  is  gone.  Ha!  there  's  Rugge, —  looks  very 
angry, —  savage,  indeed." 

WAIFE.  —  " Good  sign  that!  proceed." 

COBBLER.  —  "Shakes  his  fist;  gone.  Ha!  a  young  man, 
boyish,  dark  hair." 

SOPHY  (clapping  her  hands).  — "That  is  the  young  gentle- 
man—  the  very  young  one,  I  mean  —  with  the  kind  eyes;  is 
he  coming?  —  is  he,  is  he?" 

WAIFE.  —  "  Examine  his  pockets !  do  you  see  there  three 
pounds?" 

COBBLER  (testily).  —  "Don't  be  a-interrupting.  Ha!  he  is 
talking  with  another  gentleman,  bearded. " 

SOPHY  (whispering  to  her  grandfather).  — "The  old  young 
gentleman." 

COBBLER  (putting  down  the  crystal,  and  with  great  deci- 
sion).—  "  They  are  coming  here ;  I  see'd  them  at  the  corner 
of  the  lane,  by  the  public-house,  two  minutes'  walk  to  this 
door."  He  took  out  a  great  silver  watch:  "Look,  Sophy, 
when  the  minute-hand  gets  there  (or  before,  if  they  walk 
briskly),  you  will  hear  them  knock." 

Sophy  clasped  her  hands  in  mute  suspense,  half -credulous, 
half -doubting;  then  she  went  and  opened  the  room -door,  and 
stood  on  the  landing-place  to  listen.  Merle  approached  the 
Comedian,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  wish  for  your  sake  she 
had  the  gift." 

WAIFE.  —  "  The  gift !  —  the  three  pounds !  —  so  do  I !  " 

COBBLER.  —  "  Pooh !  worth  a  hundred  times  three  pounds ; 
the  gift, — the  spirituous  gift." 

WAIFE.  —  "Spirituous!  don't  like  the  epithet, —  smells  of 
gin!" 

COBBLER.  — "  Spirituous  gift  to  see  in  the  crystal :  if  she 
had  that,  she  might  make  your  fortune." 

WAIFE  (with  a  sudden  change  of  countenance).  — "Ah!  I 
never  thought  of  that.  But  if  she  has  not  the  gift,  I  could 
teach  it  her, — eh?" 

COBBLER  (indignantly).  —  "I  did  not  think  to  hear  this 
from  you,  Mr.  Waife.  Teach  her, — you!  make  her  an  im- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  35 

poster,  and  of  the  wickedest  kind,  inventing  lies  between 
earth  and  them  as  dwell  in  the  seven  spheres !  Fie !  No,  if 
she  has  n't  the  gift  natural,  let  her  alone :  what  here  is  not 
heaven-sent  is  devil-taught." 

WAIFE  (awed,  but  dubious).  — "Then  you  really  think  you 
saw  all  that  you  described,  in  that  glass  egg?  " 

COBBLER.  —  "Think!  —  am  I  a  liar?  I  spoke  truth,  and 
the  proof  is  —  there  —  ! "  Rat-tat  went  the  knocker  at  the 
door. 

"The  two  minutes  are  just  up,"  said  the  Cobbler;  and  Cor- 
nelius Agrippa  could  not  have  said  it  with  more  wizardly 
effect. 

"They  are  come,  indeed,"  said  Sophy,  re-entering  the  room 
softly:  "I  hear  their  voices  at  the  threshold." 

The  Cobbler  passed  by  in  silence,  descended  the  stairs,  and 
conducted  Vance  and  Lionel  into  the  Comedian's  chamber; 
there  he  left  them,  his  brow  overcast.  Gentleman  Waife  had 
displeased  him  sorely. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHOWING  the  arts  by  which  a  man,  however  high  in  the  air  Nature  may  have 
formed  his  nose,  may  be  led  by  that  nose,  and  in  directions  perversely 
opposite  to  those  which,  in  following  his  nose,  he  might  be  supposed  to 
take ;  and,  therefore,  that  nations  the  most  liberally  endowed  with  practi- 
cal good  sense,  and  in  conceit  thereof,  carrying  their  noses  the  most  hori- 
zontally aloof,  when  they  come  into  conference  with  nations  more  skilled 
in  diplomacy  and  more  practised  in  "  stage-play,"  end  by  the  surrender  of 
the  precise  object  which  it  was  intended  they  should  surrender  before  they 
laid  their  noses  together. 

WE  all  know  that  Demosthenes  said,  Everything  in  oratory 
was  acting, — stage -play.  Is  it  in  oratory  alone  that  the  say- 
ing holds  good?  Apply  it  to  all  circumstances  of  life, — 
"  stage-play,  stage-play,  stage-play  I  "  —  only  ars  est  celare  ar- 


36  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

tern,  conceal  the  art.  Gleesome  in  soul  to  behold  his  visitors, 
calculating  already  on  the  three  pounds  to  be  extracted  from 
them,  seeing  in  that  hope  the  crisis  in  his  own  checkered  ex- 
istence, Mr.  Waife  rose  from  his  seat  in  superb  upocrisia  or 
stage-play,  and  asked,  with  mild  dignity, —  "To  what  am  I 
indebted,  gentlemen,  for  the  honour  of  your  visit?" 

In  spite  of  his  nose,  even  Vance  was  taken  aback.  Pope 
says  that  Lord  Bolingbroke  had  "the  nobleman  air."  A  great 
comedian  Lord  Bolingbroke  surely  was.  But,  ah,  had  Pope 
seen  Gentleman  Waife !  Taking  advantage  of  the  impression 
he  had  created,  the  actor  added,  with  the  finest  imaginable 
breeding, —  "But  pray  be  seated;"  and,  once  seeing  them 
seated,  resumed  his  easy-chair,  and  felt  himself  master  of 
the  situation. 

"  Hum !  "  said  Vance,  recovering  his  self-possession,  after  a 
pause  —  "  hum ! " 

"  Hem ! "  re-echoed  Gentleman  Waife ;  and  the  two  men 
eyed  each  other  much  in  the  same  way  as  Admiral  Napier 
might  have  eyed  the  fort  of  Cronstadt,  and  the  fort  of  Cron- 
stadt  have  eyed  Admiral  Napier. 

Lionel  struck  in  with  that  youthful  boldness  which  plays 
the  deuce  with  all  dignified  strategical  science. 

"You  must  be  aware  why  we  come,  sir;  Mr.  Merle  will 
have  explained.  My  friend,  a  distinguished  artist,  wished 
to  make  a  sketch,  if  you  do  not  object,  of  this  young  lady's 
very"  —  "Pretty  little  face,"  quoth  Vance,  taking  up  the  dis- 
course. "Mr.  Rugge,  this  morning,  was  willing, —  I  under- 
stand that  your  grandchild  refused.  We  are  come  here  to  see 
if  she  will  be  more  complaisant  under  your  own  roof,  or 
under  Mr.  Merle's,  which,  I  take  it,  is  the  same  thing  for 
the  present."  —  Sophy  had  sidled  up  to  Lionel.  He  might 
not  have  been  flattered  if  he  knew  why  she  preferred  him  to 
Vance.  She  looked  on  him  as  a  boy,  a  fellow-child ;  and  an 
instinct,  moreover,  told  her,  that  more  easily  through  him 
than  his  shrewd-looking  bearded  guest  could  she  attain  the 
object  of  her  cupidity,  —  "  three  pounds ! " 

"  Three  pounds ! "  whispered  Sophy,  with  the  tones  of  an 
angel,  into  Lionel's  thrilling  ear. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  37 

MB.  WAIFE.  —  "Sir,  I  will  be  frank  with  you."  At  that 
ominous  commencement,  Mr.  Vance  recoiled,  and  mechani- 
cally buttoned  his  trousers  pocket.  Mr.  Waife  noted  the 
gesture  with  his  one  eye,  and  proceeded  cautiously,  feeling 
his  way,  as  it  were,  towards  the  interior  of  the  recess  thus 
protected.  "  My  grandchild  declined  your  flattering  proposal 
with  my  full  approbation.  She  did  not  consider  —  neither 
did  I  —  that  the  managerial  rights  of  Mr.  Rugge  entitled  him 
to  the  moiety  of  her  face  —  off  the  stage."  The  Comedian 
paused,  and  with  a  voice,  the  mimic  drollery  of  which  no 
hoarseness  could  altogether  mar,  chanted  the  old  line,  — 

" '  My  face  is  my  fortune,  sir,'  she  said." 

Vance  smiled;  Lionel  laughed j  Sophy  nestled  still  nearer 
to  the  boy. 

GENTLEMAN  WAIFE  (with  pathos  and  dignity).  —  "You  see 
before  you  an  old  man :  one  way  of  life  is  the  same  to  me  as 
another.  But  she, — do  you  think  Mr.  Kugge's  stage  the 
right  place  for  her?" 

VANCE.  — "  Certainly  not.  Why  did  you  not  intro- 
duce her  to  the  London  Manager  who  would  have  engaged 
yourself?  " 

Waife  could  not  conceal  a  slight  change  of  countenance. 
"How  do  I  know  she  would  have  succeeded?  She  had  never 
then  trod  the  boards.  Besides,  what  strikes  you  as  so  good 
in  a  village  show  may  be  poor  enough  in  a  metropolitan 
theatre.  Gentlemen,  I  do  my  best  for  her ;  you  cannot  think 
otherwise,  since  she  maintains  me!  I  am  no  CEdipus,  yet 
she  is  my  Antigone." 

VANCE.  —  "  You  know  the  classics,  sir.  Mr.  Merle  said  you 
were  a  scholar !  —  read  Sophocles  in  his  native  Greek,  I  pre- 
sume, sir?" 

MB.  WAIFE.  —  "  You  jeer  at  the  unfortunate :  I  am  used 
to  it." 

VANCE  (confused).  —  "I  did  not  mean  to  wound  you:  I  beg 
pardon.  But  your  language  and  manner  are  not  what  —  what 
one  might  expect  to  find  in  a  —  in  a  —  Bandit  persecuted  by  a 
remorseless  Baron." 


38  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

MR.  WAIFE.  —  "  Sir,  you  say  you  are  an  artist.  Have  you 
heard  no  tales  of  your  professional  brethren, —  men  of  genius 
the  highest,  who  won  fame,  which  I  never  did,  and  failed  of 
fortunes,  as  I  have  done?  Their  own  fault,  perhaps, —  im- 
providence, wild  habits,  ignorance  of  the  way  how  to  treat 
life  and  deal  with  their  fellow-men;  such  fault  may  have 
been  mine  too.  I  suffer  for  it:  no  matter;  I  ask  none  to  save 
me.  You  are  a  painter:  you  would  place  her  features  on 
your  canvas;  you  would  have  her  rank  amongst  your  own 
creations.  She  may  become  a  part  of  your  immortality. 
Princes  may  gaze  on  the  effigies  of  the  innocent  happy  child- 
hood, to  which  your  colours  lend  imperishable  glow.  They 
may  ask  who  and  what  was  this  fair  creature?  Will  you  an- 
swer, 'One  whom  I  found  in  tinsel,  and  so  left,  sure  that  she 
would  die  in  rags ! '  —  Save  her !  " 

Lionel  drew  forth  his  purse,  and  poured  its  contents  on  the 
table.  Vance  covered  them  with  his  broad  hand,  and  swept 
them  into  his  own  pocket!  At  that  sinister  action  Waife  felt 
his  heart  sink  into  his  shoes;  but  his  face  was  as  calm  as  a 
Koman's,  only  he  resumed  his  pipe  with  a  prolonged  and 
testy  whiff. 

"It  is  I  who  am  to  take  the  portrait,  and  it  is  I  who  will 
pay  for  it,"  said  Vance.  "I  understand  that  you  have  a 
pressing  occasion  for"  —  "Three  pounds!"  muttered  Sophy, 
sturdily,  through  the  tears  which  her  grandfather's  pathos 
had  drawn  forth  from  her  downcast  eyes,  "  Three  pounds  — 
three  —  three." 

"  You  shall  have  them.  But  listen :  I  meant  only  to  take  a 
sketch ;  I  must  now  have  a  finished  portrait.  I  cannot  take 
this  by  candlelight.  You  must  let  me  come  here  to-morrow; 
and  yet  to-morrow,  I  understand,  you  meant  to  leave?" 

WAIFE.  — "  If  you  will  generously  bestow  on  us  the  sum 
you  say,  we  shall  not  leave  the  village  till  you  have  com- 
pleted your  picture.  It  is  Mr.  Eugge  and  his  company  we 
will  leave." 

VANCE.  —  "  And  may  I  venture  to  ask  what  you  propose  to 
do,  towards  a  new  livelihood  for  yourself  and  your  grandchild, 
by  the  help  of  a  sum  which  is  certainly  much  for  me  to  pay, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  39 

—  enormous,  I  might  say,  quoad  me, — but  small  for  a  capital 
whereon  to  set  up  a  business?" 

WAIFE.  —  "  Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  answer  that  very  natural 
question  at  present.  Let  me  assure  you  that  that  precise  sum 
is  wanted  for  an  investment  which  promises  her  and  myself 
an  easy  existence.  But  to  insure  my  scheme,  I  must  keep  it 
secret.  Do  you  believe  me?" 

"I  do ! "  cried  Lionel ;  and  Sophy,  whom  by  this  time  he 
had  drawn  upon  his  lap,  put  her  arm  gratefully  round  his 
neck. 

"There  is  your  money,  sir,  beforehand,"  said  Vance,  de- 
clining downward  his  betrayed  and  resentful  nose,  and  depos- 
iting three  sovereigns  on  the  table. 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  said  Waife,  smiling,  "that 
I  may  not  be  off  to-night  with  your  money  and  your 
model!" 

"Well,"  said  Vance,  curtly,  "I  think  it  is  on  the  cards. 
Still,  as  John  Kemble  said  when  rebuked  for  too  large  an 
alms, — 

" '  It  is  not  often  that  I  do  these  things, 
But  when  I  do,  I  do  them  handsomely.' " 

"Well  applied,  and  well  delivered,  sir,"  said  the  Come- 
dian, "only  you  should  put  a  little  more  emphasis  on  the 
word  do" 

"Did  I  not  put  enough?  I  am  sure  I  felt  it  strongly;  no 
one  can  feel  the  do  more ! " 

Waife's  pliant  face  relaxed  into  a  genial  brightness:  the 
Equivoque  charmed  him.  However,  not  affecting  to  compre- 
hend it,  he  thrust  back  the  money,  and  said,  —  "No,  sir, — not 
a  shilling  till  the  picture  is  completed.  Nay,  to  relieve  your 
mind,  I  will  own  that,  had  I  no  scruple  more  delicate,  I  would 
rather  receive  nothing  till  Mr.  Rugge  is  gone.  True,  he  has 
no  right  to  any  share  in  it.  But  you  see  before  you  a  man 
who,  when  it  comes  to  arguing,  could  never  take  a  wrangler's 
degree, —  never  get  over  the  Asses'  Bridge,  sir.  Plucked  at 
it  scores  of  times  clean  as  a  feather.  But  do  not  go  yet.  You 
came  to  give  us  money:  give  us  what,  were  I  rich,  I  should 


40  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

value  more  highly, — a  little  of  your  time.  You,  sir,  are  an 
artist;  and  you,  young  gentleman?"  addressing  Lionel. 

LIONEL  (colouring).  —  "I  —  am  nothing  as  yet." 

WAIFE.  —  "You  are  fond  of  the  drama,  I  presume,  both  of 
you?  A  propos  of  John  Kemble,  you,  sir,  said  that  you  have 
never  heard  him.  Allow  me,  so  far  as  this  cracked  voice  can 
do  it,  to  give  you  a  faint  idea  of  him." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Vance,  drawing  nearer  to  the 
table,  and  feeling  more  at  his  ease.  "But  since  I  see  you 
smoke,  may  I  take  the  liberty  to  light  my  cigar?" 

"  Make  yourself  at  home, "  said  Gentleman  Waif e,  with  the 
good-humour  of  a  fatherly  host.  And,  all  the  while,  Lionel 
and  Sophy  were  babbling  together,  she  still  upon  his  lap. 

Waife  began  his  imitation  of  John  Kemble.  Despite  the 
cracked  voice,  it  was  admirable.  One  imitation  drew  on  an- 
other ;  then  succeeded  anecdotes  of  the  Stage,  of  the  Senate, 
of  the  Bar.  Waife  had  heard  great  orators,  whom  every  one 
still  admires  for  the  speeches  which  nobody  nowadays  ever 
reads ;  he  gave  a  lively  idea  of  each.  And  then  came  sayings 
of  dry  humour  and  odd  scraps  of  worldly  observation;  and 
time  flew  on  pleasantly  till  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  the 
young  guests  tore  themselves  away. 

"Merle,  Merle!"  cried  the  Comedian,  when  they  were 
gone. 

Merle  appeared. 

"We  don't  go  to-morrow.  When  Rugge  sends  for  us  (as 
he  will  do  at  daybreak),  say  so.  You  shall  lodge  us  a  few 
days  longer,  and  then  —  and  then  —  my  little  Sophy,  kiss  me, 
kiss  me !  You  are  saved  at  least  from  those  horrid  painted 
creatures ! " 

"  Ah,  ah ! "  growled  Merle  from  below,  "  he  has  got  the 
money!  Glad  to  hear  it.  But,"  he  added,  as  he  glanced  at 
sundry  weird  and  astrological  symbols  with  which  he  had 
been  diverting  himself,  "that's  not  it.  The  true  horary 
question,  is,  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  ITV        41 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  historian  shows  that,  notwithstanding  the  progressive  spirit  of  the  times, 
a  Briton  is  not  permitted,  without  an  effort,  "  to  progress "  according  to 
his  own  inclinations. 

SOPHY  could  not  sleep.  At  first  she  was  too  happy.  With- 
out being  conscious  of  any  degradation  in  her  lot  amongst  the 
itinerant  artists  of  Mr.  Rugge's  exhibition,  —  how  could  she, 
when  her  beloved  and  revered  protector  had  been  one  of  those 
artists  for  years?  —  yet  instinctively  she  shrank  from  their 
contact.  Doubtless,  while  absorbed  in  some  stirring  part, 
she  forgot  companions,  audience,  all,  and  enjoyed  what  she 
performed, —  necessarily  enjoyed,  for  her  acting  was  really 
excellent,  and  where  no  enjoyment  there  no  excellence;  but 
when  the  histrionic  enthusiasm  was  not  positively  at  work, 
she  crept  to  her  grandfather  with  something  between  loathing 
and  terror  of  the  "  painted  creatures  "  and  her  own  borrowed 
tinsel. 

But,  more  than  all,  she  felt  acutely  every  indignity  or 
affront  offered  to  Gentleman  Waife.  Heaven  knows,  these 
were  not  few;  and  to  escape  from  such  a  life  —  to  be  with  her 
grandfather  alone,  have  him  all  to  herself  to  tend  and  to  pet, 
to  listen  to  and  to  prattle  with  —  seemed  to  her  the  consum- 
mation of  human  felicity.  Ah,  but  should  she  be  all  alone? 
Just  as  she  was  lulling  herself  into  a  doze,  that  question 
seized  and  roused  her.  And  then  it  was  not  happiness  that 
kept  her  waking:  it  was  what  is  less  rare  in  the  female 
breast,  curiosity.  Who  was  to  be  the  mysterious  third,  to 
whose  acquisition  the  three  pounds  were  evidently  to  be  de- 
voted? What  new  face  had  she  purchased  by  the  loan  of  her 
own?  Not  the  Pig-faced  Lady  nor  the  Spotted  Boy.  Could 
it  be  the  Norfolk  Giant  or  the  Calf  with  two  Heads?  Horri- 
ble idea!  Monstrous  phantasmagoria  began  to  stalk  before 
her  eyes;  and  to  charm  them  away,  with  great  fervour  she 


42  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

fell  to  saying  her  prayers, —  an  act  of  devotion  which  she  had 
forgotten,  in  her  excitement,  to  perform  before  resting  her 
head  on  the  pillow,  —  an  omission,  let  us  humbly  hope,  not 
noted  down  in  very  dark  characters  by  the  recording  angel. 

That  act  over,  her  thoughts  took  a  more  comely  aspect  than 
had  been  worn  by  the  preceding  phantasies,  reflected  Lionel's 
kind  looks  and  repeated  his  gentle  words.  "Heaven  bless 
him!  "  she  said  with  emphasis,  as  a  supplement  to  the  habit- 
ual prayers;  and  then  tears  gathered  to  her  grateful  eyelids, 
for  she  was  one  of  those  beings  whose  tears  come  slow  from 
sorrow,  quick  from  affection.  And  so  the  gray  dawn  found 
her  still  wakeful,  and  she  rose,  bathed  her  cheeks  in  the  cold 
fresh  water,  and  drew  them  forth  with  a  glow  like  Hebe's. 
Dressing  herself  with  the  quiet  activity  which  characterized 
all  her  movements,  she  then  opened  the  casement  and  inhaled 
the  air.  All  was  still  in  the  narrow  lane ;  the  shops  yet  un- 
closed. But  on  the  still  trees  behind  the  shops  the  birds 
were  beginning  to  stir  and  chirp.  Chanticleer,  from  some 
neighbouring  yard,  rang  out  his  brisk  r6veill6e.  Pleasant 
English  summer  dawn  in  the  pleasant  English  country  village. 
She  stretched  her  graceful  neck  far  from  the  casement,  trying 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  river.  She  had  seen  its  majestic 
flow  on  the  day  they  had  arrived  at  the  fair,  and  longed  to 
gain  its  banks ;  then  her  servitude  to  the  stage  forbade  her. 
Now  she  was  to  be  free!  Ojoy!  Now  she  might  have  her 
careless  hours  of  holiday;  and,  forgetful  of  Waife's  warning 
that  their  vocation  must  be  plied  in  towns,  she  let  her  fancy 
run  riot  amidst  visions  of  green  fields  and  laughing  waters, 
and  in  fond  delusion  gathered  the  daisies  and  chased  the 
butterflies.  Changeling  transferred  into  that  lowest  world  of 
Art  from  the  cradle  of  civil  Nature,  her  human  child's  heart 
yearned  for  the  human  childlike  delights.  All  children  love 
the  country,  the  flowers,  the  sward,  the  birds,  the  butterflies ; 
or  if  some  do  not,  despair,  0  Philanthropy,  of  their  after- 
lives! 

She  closed  the  window,  smiling  to  herself;  stole  through 
the  adjoining  doorway,  and  saw  that  her  grandfather  was 
still  asleep.  Then  she  busied  herself  in  putting  the  little 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  43 

sitting-room  to  rights,  reset  the  table  for  the  morning  meal, 
watered  the  stocks,  and  finally  took  up  the  crystal  and  looked 
into  it  with  awe,  wondering  why  the  Cobbler  could  see  so 
much,  and  she  only  the  distorted  reflection  of  her  own  face. 
So  interested,  however,  for  once,  did  she  become  in  the  in- 
spection of  this  mystic  globe,  that  she  did  not  notice  the 
dawn  pass  into  broad  daylight,  nor  hear  a  voice  at  the  door 
below, — nor,  in  short,  take  into  cognition  the  external  world, 
till  a  heavy  tread  shook  the  floor,  and  then,  starting,  she  be- 
held the  Kemorseless  Baron,  with  a  face  black  enough  to  have 
darkened  the  crystal  of  Dr.  Dee  himself. 

"Ho,  ho,"  said  Mr.  Rugge,  in  hissing  accents  which  had 
often  thrilled  the  threepenny  gallery  with  anticipative  horror. 
"Rebellious,  eh?  —  won't  come?  Where  's  your  grandfather, 
baggage?" 

Sophy  let  fall  the  crystal  —  a  mercy  it  was  not  broken  — 
and  gazed  vacantly  on  the  Baron. 

"Your  vile  scamp  of  a  grandfather?" 

SOPHY  (with  spirit).  — "He  is  not  vile.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself  speaking  so,  Mr.  Rugge !  " 

Here  simultaneously,  Mr.  Waife,  hastily  indued  in  his 
gray  dressing-gown,  presented  himself  at  the  aperture  of  the 
bedroom  door,  and  the  Cobbler  on  the  threshold  of  the  sit- 
ting-room. The  Comedian  stood  mute,  trusting  perhaps  to 
the  imposing  effect  of  his  attitude.  The  Cobbler,  yielding  to 
the  impulse  of  untheatric  man,  put  his  head  doggedly  on  one 
side,  and  with  both  hands  on  his  hips  said, — 

"  Civil  words  to  my  lodgers,  master,  or  out  you  go !  " 

The  Remorseless  Baron  glared  vindictively,  first  at  one  and 
then  at  the  other ;  at  length  he  strode  up  to  Waife,  and  said, 
with  a  withering  grin,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  youj  shall 
I  say  it  before  your  landlord?" 

The  Comedian  waved  his  hand  to  the  Cobbler. 

"Leave  us,  my  friend;  I  shall  not  require  you.  Step  this 
way,  Mr.  Rugge."  Rugge  entered  the  bedroom,  and  Waife 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"  Anan,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  scratching  his  head.  "I  don't 
quite  take  your  grandfather's  giving  in.  British  ground 


44  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

here!  But  your  Ascendant  cannot  surely  be  in  such  malig- 
nant conjunction  with  that  obstreperous  tyrant  as  to  bind  you 
to  him  hand  and  foot.  Let 's  see  what  the  crystal  thinks  of 
it.  Take  it  up  gently,  and  come  downstairs  with  me." 

"Please,  no;  I  '11  stay  near  Grandfather,"  said  Sophy,  reso- 
lutely. "He  sha'n't  be  left  helpless  with  that  rude  man." 

The  Cobbler  could  not  help  smiling.  "Lord  love  you," 
said  he ;  "  you  have  a  spirit  of  your  own,  and  if  you  were  my 
wife  I  should  be  afraid  of  you.  But  I  won't  stand  here  eaves- 
dropping; mayhap  your  grandfather  has  secrets  I'm  not  to 
hear:  call  me  if  I'm  wanted."  He  descended.  Sophy,  with 
less  noble  disdain  of  eavesdropping,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  holding  her  breath  to  listen.  She  heard  no  sound ;  she 
had  half  a  mind  to  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  but  that  seemed 
even  to  her  a  mean  thing,  if  not  absolutely  required  by  the 
necessity  of  the  case.  So  there  she  still  stood,  her  head 
bent  down,  her  finger  raised:  oh,  that  Vance  could  have  so 
painted  her! 


CHAPTER  X. 

SHOWING  the  causes  why  men  and  nations,  when  one  man  or  nation  wishes 
to  get  for  its  own  arbitrary  purposes  what  the  other  man  or  nation  does 
not  desire  to  part  with,  are  apt  to  ignore  the  mild  precepts  of  Christianity, 
shock  the  sentiments  and  upset  the  theories  of  Peace  Societies. 

"AM  I  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Rugge,  in  a  whisper,  when 
Waife  had  drawn  him  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  inner  room, 
with  the  bed-curtains  between  their  position  and  the  door, 
deadening  the  sound  of  their  voices, —  "ami  to  understand 
that,  after  my  taking  you  and  that  child  to  my  theatre  out  of 
charity,  and  at  your  own  request,  you  are  going  to  quit  me 
without  warning, —  French  leave;  is  that  British  conduct?" 

"Mr.  Rugge,"  replied  Waife,  deprecatingly,  "I  have  no 
engagement  with  you  beyond  an  experimental  trial.  We 
were  free  on  both  sides  for  three  months, — you  to  dismiss  us 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  45 

any  day,  we  to  leave  you.  The  experiment  does  not  please 
us:  we  thank  you  and  depart." 

EUGGE.  —  "  That  is  not  the  truth.  I  said  J  was  free  to  dis- 
miss you  both,  if  the  child  did  not  suit.  You,  poor  helpless 
creature,  could  be  of  no  use.  But  I  never  heard  you  say  you 
were  to  be  free  too.  Stands  to  reason  not !  Put  my  engage- 
ments at  a  Waif  e's  mercy!  I,  Lorenzo  Rugge! — stuff!  But 
I  am  a  just  man,  and  a  liberal  man,  and  if  you  think  you 
ought  to  have  a  higher  salary,  if  this  ungrateful  proceeding 
is  only,  as  I  take  it,  a  strike  for  wages,  I  will  meet  you. 
Juliet  Araminta  does  play  better  than  I  could  have  supposed ; 
and  I  '11  conclude  an  engagement  on  good  terms,  as  we  were 
to  have  done  if  the  experiment  answered,  for  three  years." 

Waife  shook  his  head.  "You are  very  good,  Mr.  Kugge, 
but  it  is  not  a  strike.  My  little  girl  does  not  like  the  life  at 
any  price ;  and,  since  she  supports  me,  I  am  bound  to  please 
her.  Besides,"  said  the  actor,  with  a  stiffer  manner,  "you 
have  broken  faith  with  me.  It  was  fully  understood  that  I 
was  to  appear  no  more  on  your  stage ;  all  my  task  was  to  ad- 
vise with  you  in  the  performances,  remodel  the  plays,  help 
in  the  stage-management;  and  you  took  advantage  of  my 
penury,  and,  when  I  asked  for  a  small  advance,  insisted  on 
forcing  these  relics  of  what  I  was  upon  the  public  pity. 
Enough:  we  part.  I  bear  no  malice." 

RUGGE. —  "Oh,  don't  you?  No  more  do  I.  But  I  am  a 
Briton,  and  I  have  the  spirit  of  one.  You  had  better  not 
make  an  enemy  of  me." 

WAIFE.  —  "I  am  above  the  necessity  of  making  enemies. 
I  have  an  enemy  ready  made  in  myself." 

Kugge  placed  a  strong  bony  hand  upon  the  cripple's  arm. 
"  I  dare  say  you  have !  A  bad  conscience,  sir.  How  would 
you  like  your  past  life  looked  into,  and  blabbed  out? " 

GENTLEMAN  WAIFE  (mournfully).  —  "The  last  four  years 
of  it  have  been  spent  in  your  service,  Mr.  Kugge.  If  their 
record  had  been  blabbed  out  for  my  benefit,  there  would  not 
have  been  a  dry  eye  in  the  house." 

RUGGE.  —  "I  disdain  your  sneer.  When  a  scorpion  nursed 
at  my  bosom  sneers  at  me,  I  leave  it  to  its  own  reflections. 


46  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

But  I  don't  speak  of  the  years  in  which  that  scorpion  has 
been  enjoying  a  salary  and  smoking  canaster  at  my  expense. 
I  refer  to  an  earlier  dodge  in  its  checkered  existence.  Ha, 
sir,  you  wince!  I  suspect  I  can  find  out  something  about  you 
which  would  —  " 

WAIFE  (fiercely).  —  "  Would  what?  " 

RUGGE. — "Oh,  lower  your  tone,  sir;  no  bullying  me.  I 
suspect!  I  have  good  reason  for  suspicion;  and  if  you  sneak 
off  in  this  way,  and  cheat  me  out  of  my  property  in  Juliet 
Araminta,  I  will  leave  no  stone  untnrned  to  prove  what  I 
suspect:  look  to  it,  slight  man!  Come,  1  don't  wish  to  quar- 
rel ;  make  it  up,  and  "  (drawing  out  his  pocket-book)  "  if  you 
want  cash  down,  and  will  have  an  engagement  in  black  and 
white  for  three  years  for  Juliet  Araminta,  you  may  squeeze  a 
good  sum  out  of  me,  and  go  yourself  where  you  please :  you  '11 
never  be  troubled  by  me.  What  I  want  is  the  girl." 

All  the  actor  laid  aside,  Waife  growled  out,  "And  hang 
me,  sir,  if  you  shall  have  the  girl!" 

At  this  moment  Sophy  opened  the  door  wide,  and  entered 
boldly.  She  had  heard  her  grandfather's  voice  raised,  though 
its  hoarse  tones  did  not  allow  her  to  distinguish  his  words. 
She  was  alarmed  for  him.  She  came  in,  his  guardian  fairy, 
to  protect  him  from  the  oppressor  of  six  feet  high.  Rugge's 
arm  was  raised,  not  indeed  to  strike,  but  rather  to  declaim. 
Sophy  slid  between  him  and  her  grandfather,  and,  clinging 
round  the  latter,  flung  out  her  own  arm,  the  forefinger  raised 
menacingly  towards  the  Remorseless  Baron.  How  you  would 
have  clapped  if  you  had  seen  her  so  at  Covent  Garden !  But 
I  '11  swear  the  child  did  not  know  she  was  acting.  Rugge 
did,  and  was  struck  with  admiration  and  regretful  rage  at  the 
idea  of  losing  her. 

"  Bravo !  "  said  he,  involuntarily.  "  Come,  come,  Waife, 
look  at  her:  she  was  born  for  the  stage.  My  heart  swells 
with  pride.  She  is  my  property,  morally  speaking;  make 
her  so  legally ;  and  hark,  in  your  ear,  fifty  pounds.  Take  me 
in  the  humour, —  Golconda  opens, —  fifty  pounds!" 

"No,"  said  the  vagrant. 

"Well,"  said  Rugge,  sullenly;  "let  her  speak  for  herself." 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  47 

"Speak,  child.  You  don't  wish  to  return  to  Mr.  Eugge, 
—  and  without  ine,  too, —  do  you,  Sophy?" 

"Without  you,  Grandy !     I  'd  rather  die  first." 

"You  hear  her;  all  is  settled  between  us.  You  have  had 
our  services  up  to  last  night;  you  have  paid  us  up  to  last 
night;  and  so  good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Eugge." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  manager,  softening  his  voice  as 
much  as  he  could,  "do  consider.  You  shall  be  so  made  of 
without  that  stupid  old  man.  You  think  me  cross,  but  't  is 
he  who  irritates  and  puts  me  out  of  temper.  I  'm  uncommon 
fond  of  children.  I  had  a  babe  of  my  own  once, — upon  my 
honour,  I  had, —  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  convulsions, 
caused  by  teething,  I  should  be  a  father  still.  Supply  to  me 
the  place  of  that  beloved  babe.  You  shall  have  such  fine 
dresses;  all  new, — choose  'em  yourself, — minced  veal  and 
raspberry  tarts  for  dinner  every  Sunday.  In  three  years, 
under  my  care,  you  will  become  a  great  actress,  and  make 
your  fortune,  and  marry  a  lord, — lords  go  out  of  their  wits 
for  great  actresses, — whereas,  with  him,  what  will  you  do? 
drudge  and  rot  and  starve;  and  he  can't  live  long,  and  then 
where  will  you  be?  'Tis  a  shame  to  hold  her  so,  you  idle 
old  vagabond." 

"I  don't  hold  her,"  said  Waife,  trying  to  push  her  away. 
"There's  something  in  what  the  man  says.  Choose  for 
yourself,  Sophy." 

SOPHY  (suppressing  a  sob).  — "How  can  you  have  the  heart 
to  talk  so,  Grandy?  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Eugge,  you  are  a  bad 
man,  and  I  hate  you,  and  all  about  you;  and  I'll  stay  with 
Grandfather;  and  I  don't  care  if  I  do  starve:  he  sha'n'tf" 

MR.  EUGGE  (clapping  both  hands  on  the  crown  of  his  hat, 
and  striding  to  the  door).  —  "William  Waife,  beware:  'tis 
done.  I  'm  your  enemy.  As  for  you,  too  dear  but  abandoned 
infant,  stay  with  him:  you'll  find  out  very  soon  who  and 
what  he  is;  your  pride  will  have  a  fall,  when  — " 

Waife  sprang  forward,  despite  his  lameness, — both  his  fists 
clenched,  his  one  eye  ablaze ;  his  broad  burly  torso  confronted 
and  daunted  the  stormy  manager.  Taller  and  younger  though 
Eugge  was,  he  cowered  before  the  cripple  he  had  so  long 


48  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

taunted  and  humbled.  The  words  stood  arrested  on  his 
tongue.  "Leave  the  room  instantly!"  thundered  the  actor, 
in  a  voice  no  longer  broken.  "  Blacken  my  name  before  that 
child  by  one  word,  and  I  will  dash  the  next  down  your  throat." 

Rugge  rushed  to  the  door,  and  keeping  it  ajar  between 
Waife  and  himself,  he  then  thrust  in  his  head,  hissing  forth, 
"Fly,  caitiff,  fly!  my  revenge  shall  track  your  secret  and 
place  you  in  my  power.  Juliet  Araminta  shall  yet  be  mine." 
With  these  awful  words  the  Remorseless  Baron  cleared  the 
stairs  in  two  bounds,  and  was  out  of  the  house. 

Waife  smiled  contemptuously.  But  as  the  street-door 
clanged  on  the  form  of  the  angry  manager,  the  colour  faded 
from  the  old  man's  face.  Exhausted  by  the  excitement  he 
had  gone  through,  he  sank  on  a  chair,  and,  with  one  quick 
gasp  as  for  breath,  fainted  away. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

PROGRESS  of  the  Fine  Arts.  —  Biographical  anecdotes.  —  Fluctuations  in 
the  value  of  money.  —  Speculative  tendencies  of  the  time. 

WHATEVER  the  shock  which  the  brutality  of  the  Remorse- 
less Baron  inflicted  on  the  nervous  system  of  the  persecuted 
but  triumphant  Bandit,  it  had  certainly  subsided  by  the  time 
Vance  and  Lionel  entered  Waife's  apartment;  for  they  found 
grandfather  and  grandchild  seated  near  the  open  window,  at 
the  corner  of  the  table  (on  which  they  had  made  room  for 
their  operations  by  the  removal  of  the  carved  cocoanut,  the 
crystal  egg,  and  the  two  flower-pots),  eagerly  engaged,  with 
many  a  silvery  laugh  from  the  lips  of  Sophy,  in  the  game  of 
dominos. 

Mr.  Waife  had  been  devoting  himself,  for  the  last  hour 
and  more,  to  the  instruction  of  Sophy  in  the  mysteries  of  that 
intellectual  amusement;  and  such  pains  did  he  take,  and  so 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO   WITH   IT?  49 

impressive  were  his  exhortations,  that  his  happy  pupil  could 
not  help  thinking  to  herself  that  this  was  the  new  art  upon 
which  Waife  depended  for  their  future  livelihood.  She 
sprang  up,  however,  at  the  entrance  of  the  visitors,  her  face 
beaming  with  grateful  smiles;  and,  running  to  Lionel  and 
taking  him  by  the  hand,  while  she  courtesied  with  more  respect 
to  Vance,  she  exclaimed,  "We  are  free!  thanks  to  you, — 
thanks  to  you  both !  He  is  gone !  Mr.  Rugge  is  gone ! " 

"  So  I  saw  on  passing  the  green;  stage  and  all,"  said  Vance, 
while  Lionel  kissed  the  child  and  pressed  her  to  his  side.  It 
is  astonishing  how  paternal  he  felt, — how  much  she  had  crept 
into  his  heart. 

"  Pray,  sir, "  asked  Sophy,  timidly,  glancing  to  Vance,  "  has 
the  Norfolk  Giant  gone  too?  " 

VANCE.  —  "I  fancy  so  —  all  the  shows  were  either  gone  or 
going." 

SOPHY.  —  "The  Calf  with  Two  Heads?" 

VANCE.  —  "Do  you  regret  it?" 

SOPHY.  —  "Oh,  dear,  no." 

Waife,  who  after  a  profound  bow,  and  a  cheery  "  Good  day, 
gentlemen,"  had  hitherto  remained  silent,  putting  away  the 
dominoes,  now  said,  "  I  suppose,  sir,  you  would  like  at  once 
to  begin  your  sketch?  " 

VANCE.  — "  Yes ;  I  have  brought  all  my  tools ;  see,  even 
the  canvas.  I  wish  it  were  larger,  but  it  is  all  I  have  with 
me  of  that  material:  'tis  already  stretched;  just  let  me  ar- 
range the  light." 

WAIFE.  — "  If  you  don't  want  me,  gentlemen,  I  will  take 
the  air  for  half-an-hour  or  so.  In  fact,  I  may  now  feel  free 
to  look  after  my  investment." 

SOPHY  (whispering  Lionel).  —  "You  are  sure  the  Calf  has 
gone  as  well  as  the  Norfolk  Giant?  " 

Lionel  wonderingly  replied  that  he  thought  so ;  and  Waife 
disappeared  into  his  room,  whence  he  soon  emerged,  having 
doffed  his  dressing-gown  for  a  black  coat,  by  no  means  thread- 
bare, and  well  brushed.  Hat,  stick,  and  gloves  in  hand,  he 
really  seemed  respectable, —  more  than  respectable, —  Gentle- 
man Waife  every  inch  of  him;  and  saying,  "Look  your  best, 

VOL.  I.  —  4 


50  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Sophy,  and  sit  still,  if  you  can,"  nodded  pleasantly  to  the 
three,  and  hobbled  down  the  stairs.  Sophy  —  whom  Vance 
had  just  settled  into  a  chair,  with  her  head  bent  partially 
down  (three-quarters),  as  the  artist  had  released  — 

"  The  loose  train  of  her  amber-dropping  hair," 

and  was  contemplating  aspect  and  position  with  a  painter's 
meditative  eye  —  started  up,  to  his  great  discomposure,  and 
rushed  to  the  window.  She  returned  to  her  seat  with  her 
mind  much  relieved.  Waife  was  walking  in  an  opposite  di- 
rection to  that  which  led  towards  the  whilom  quarters  of 
the  Norfolk  Giant  and  the  Two-headed  Calf. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Vance,  impatiently,  "you  have  broken 
an  idea  in  half.  I  beg  you  will  not  stir  till  I  have  placed 
you;  and  then,  if  all  else  of  you  be  still,  you  may  exercise 
your  tongue.  I  give  you  leave  to  talk." 

SOPHY  (penitentially).  —  "I  am  so  sorry  —  I  beg  pardon. 
Will  that  do,  sir?" 

VANCE. —  "Head  a  little  more  to  the  right, —  so,  Titania 
watching  Bottom  asleep.  Will  you  lie  on  the  floor,  Lionel, 
and  do  Bottom?" 

LIONEL  (indignantly).  —  "  Bottom !    Have  I  an  ass's  head?  " 

VANCE.  —  "  Immaterial !  I  can  easily  imagine  that  you 
have  one.  I  want  merely  an  outline  of  figure, —  something 
sprawling  and  ungainly." 

LIONEL  (sulkily).  —  "Much  obliged  to  you;  imagine  that 
too." 

VANCE.  —  "  Don't  be  so  disobliging.  It  is  necessary  that  she 
should  look  fondly  at  something, —  expression  in  the  eye." 

Lionel  at  once  reclined  himself  incumbent  in  a  position  as 
little  sprawling  and  ungainly  as  he  could  well  contrive. 

VANCE.  —  "  Fancy,  Miss  Sophy,  that  this  young  gentleman 
is  very  dear  to  you.  Have  you  got  a  brother?" 

SOPHY.  —  "Ah,  no,  sir." 

VANCE.  —  "Hum.     But  you  have,  or  have  had,  a  doll?" 

SOPHY.  — "Oh,  yes;  Grandfather  gave  me  one." 

VANCE.  —  "And  you  were  fond  of  that  doll? " 

SOPHY.  — "Very." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  51 

VANCE.  —  "  Fancy  that"  young  gentleman  is  your  doll  grown 
big,  that  it  is  asleep,  and  you  are  watching  that  no  one  hurts 
it;  Mr.  Rugge,  for  instance.  Throw  your  whole  soul  into 
that  thought, — love  for  doll,  apprehension  of  Kugge.  Lionel, 
keep  still,  and  shut  your  eyes;  do." 

LIONEL  (grumbling).  — "I  did  not  come  here  to  be  made  a 
doll  of." 

VANCE.  — "  Coax  him  to  be  quiet,  Miss  Sophy,  and  sleep 
peaceably,  or  I  shall  do  him  a  mischief.  I  can  be  a  Eugge, 
too,  if  I  am  put  out." 

SOPHY  (in  the  softest  tones).  —  "Do  try  and  sleep,  sir: 
shall  I  get  you  a  pillow?  " 

LIONEL.  —  "No,  thank  you:  I'm  very  comfortable  now," 
settling  his  head  upon  his  arm;  and  after  one  upward  glance 
towards  Sophy,  the  lids  closed  reluctantly  over  his  softened 
eyes.  A  ray  of  sunshine  came  aslant  through  the  half -shut 
window,  and  played  along  the  boy's  clustering  hair  and 
smooth  pale  cheek.  Sophy's  gaze  rested  on  him  most 
benignly. 

"Just  so,"  said  Vance;  "and  now  be  silent  till  I  have  got 
the  attitude  and  fixed  the  look." 

The  artist  sketched  away  rapidly  with  a  bold  practised 
hand,  and  all  was  silent  for  about  half-an-hour,  when  he  said, 
"You  may  get  up,  Lionel;  I  have  done  with  you  for  the 
present." 

SOPHY.  —  "  And  me  too  —  may  I  see?  " 

VANCE.  —  "No;  but  you  may  talk  now.  So  you  had  a  doll? 
What  has  become  of  it?  " 

SOPHY.  —  "I  left  it  behind,  sir.  Grandfather  thought  it 
would  distract  me  from  attending  to  his  lessons  and  learning 
my  part." 

VANCE.  —  "You  love  your  grandfather  more  than  the  doll? " 

SOPHY.  —  "Oh!  a  thousand  million  million  times  more." 

VANCE.  —  "He  brought  you  up,  I  suppose?  Have  you  no 
father, — no  mother?" 

SOPHY.  —  "I  have  only  Grandfather." 

LIONEL.  —  "  Have  you  always  lived  with  him?  " 

SOPHY.  —  "Dear  me,  no;  I  was  with  Mrs.  Crane  till  Grand- 


52  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

father  came  from  abroad,  and  took  me  away,  and  put  me  with 
some  very  kind  people ;  and  then,  when  Grandfather  had  that 
bad  accident,  I  came  to  stay  with  him,  and  we  have  been 
together  ever  since." 

LIONEL.  —  "Was  Mrs.  Crane  no  relation  of  yours?" 

SOPH?  .  —  "  No,  I  suppose  not,  for  she  was  not  kind ;  I  was 
so  miserable:  but  don't  talk  of  it;  I  forget  that  now.  I  only 
wish  to  remember  from  the  time  Grandfather  took  me  in  his 
lap,  and  told  me  to  be  a  good  child  and  love  him ;  and  I  have 
been  happy  ever  since." 

"You  are  a  dear  good  child,"  said  Lionel,  emphatically, 
"and  I  wish  I  had  you  for  my  sister." 

VANCE.  — "  When  your  grandfather  has  received  from  me 
that  exorbitant  —  not  that  I  grudge  it  —  sum,  I  should  like  to 
ask,  What  will  he  do  with  it?  As  he  said  it  was  a  secret,  I 
must  not  pump  you." 

SOPHY.  — "  What  will  he  do  with  it?  I  should  like  to 
know,  too,  sir;  but  whatever  it  is  I  don't  care,  so  long  as  I 
and  Grandfather  are  together." 

Here  Waife  re-entered.    "Well,  how  goes  on  the  picture?" 

VANCE.  —  "Tolerably,  for  the  first  sitting;  I  require  two 
more." 

WAIFE.  — "Certainly;  only  —  only"  (he  drew  aside  Vance, 
and  whispered),  "only  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  fear  I 
shall  want  the  money.  It  is  an  occasion  that  never  will 
occur  again:  I  would  seize  it." 

VANCE.  — "Take  the  money  now." 

WAIFE.  —  "Well,  thank  you,  sir;  you  are  sure  now  that 
we  shall  not  run  away ;  and  I  accept  your  kindness ;  it  will 
make  all  safe." 

Vance,  with  surprising  alacrity,  slipped  the  sovereigns  into 
the  old  man's  hand;  for  truth  to  say,  though  thrifty,  the  ar- 
tist was  really  generous.  His  organ  of  caution  was  large,  but 
that  of  acquisitiveness  moderate.  Moreover,  in  those  mo- 
ments when  his  soul  expanded  with  his  art,  he  was  insensibly 
less  alive  to  the  value  of  money.  And  strange  it  is  that, 
though  States  strive  to  fix  for  that  commodity  the  most  abid- 
ing standards,  yet  the  value  of  money  to  the  individual  who 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  53 

regards  it  shifts  and  fluctuates,  goes  up  and  down  half-a- 
dozen  times  a  day.  For  my  part,  I  honestly  declare  that 
there  are  hours  in  the  twenty-four  —  such,  for  instance,  as 
that  just  before  breakfast,  or  that  succeeding  a  page  of  this 
History  in  which  I  have  been  put  out  of  temper  with  my 
performance  and  myself  —  when  any  one  in  want  of  five  shil- 
lings at  my  disposal  would  find  my  value  of  that  sum  put  it 
quite  out  of  his  reach;  while  at  other  times  —  just  after  din- 
ner, for  instance,  or  when  I  have  effected  what  seems  to  me 
a  happy  stroke,  or  a  good  bit  of  colour,  in  this  historical 
composition  —  the  value  of  those  five  shillings  is  so  much  de- 
preciated that  I  might  be, —  I  think  so,  at  least,  —  I  might  be 
almost  tempted  to  give  them  away  for  nothing.  Under  some 
such  mysterious  influences  in  the  money-market,  Vance  there- 
fore felt  not  the  loss  of  his  three  sovereigns;  and  returning 
to  his  easel,  drove  away  Lionel  and  Sophy,  who  had  taken 
that  opportunity  to  gaze  on  the  canvas. 

"Don't  do  her  justice  at  all,"  quoth  Lionel;  "all  the  feat- 
ures exaggerated." 

"  And  you  pretend  to  paint ! "  returned  Vance,  in  great 
scorn,  and  throwing  a  cloth  over  his  canvas.  "To-morrow, 
Mr.  Waife,  the  same  hour.  Now,  Lionel,  get  your  hat,  and 
come  away." 

Vance  carried  off  the  canvas,  and  Lionel  followed  slowly. 

Sophy  gazed  at  their  departing  forms  from  the  open  win- 
dow; Waife  stumped  about  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands, — 
"He '11  do;  he'll  do:  I  always  thought  so."  Sophy  turned: 
"  Who  '11  do?  —  the  young  gentleman?  Do  what?  " 

WAIFE.  —  "The  young  gentleman?  —  as  if  I  was  thinking 
of  him !  Our  new  companion ;  I  have  been  with  him  this  last 
hour.  Wonderful  natural  gifts." 

SOPHY  (ruefully).  — "It  is  alive,  then?" 

WAIFE.  — "Alive!  yes,  I  should  think  so." 

SOPHY  (half-crying.)  —  "I  am  very  sorry;  I  know  I  shall 
hate  it." 

WAIFE.  —  "Tut,  darling:  get  me  my  pipe;  I  'm  happy." 

SOPHY  (cutting  short  her  fit  of  ill-humour). — "Are  you? 
then  I  am,  and  1  will  not  hate  it." 


54  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER   XII. 

IK  which  it  is  shown  that  a  man  does  this  or  declines  to  do  that  for  reasons 
best  known  to  himself,  —  a  reserve  which  is  extremely  conducive  to  the 
social  interests  of  a  community  •,  since  the  conjecture  into  the  origin  and 
nature  of  those  reasons  stimulates  the  inquiring  faculties,  and  furnishes 
the  staple  of  modern  conversation.  And  as  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that,  if 
their  neighbours  left  them  nothing  to  guess  at,  three-fourths  of  civilized 
humankind,  male  or  female,  would  have  nothing  to  talk  about ;  so  we  can- 
not too  gratefully  encourage  that  needful  curiosity,  termed  by  the  incon 
siderate  tittle-tattle  or  scandal,  which  saves  the  vast  majority  of  our  species 
from  being  reduced  to  the  degraded  condition  of  dumb  animals. 

THE  next  day  the  sitting  was  renewed :  but  Waife  did  not 
go  out,  and  the  conversation  was  a  little  more  restrained ;  or 
rather,  Waife  had  the  larger  share  in  it.  The  Comedian, 
when  he  pleased,  could  certainly  be  very  entertaining.  It  was 
not  so  much  in  what  he  said  as  his  manner  of  saying  it.  He 
was  a  strange  combination  of  sudden  extremes,  at  one  while 
on  a  tone  of  easy  but  not  undignified  familiarity  with  his 
visitors,  as  if  their  equal  in  position,  their  superior  in  years; 
then  abruptly,  humble,  deprecating,  almost  obsequious,  al- 
most servile ;  and  then  again,  jerked  as  it  were  into  pride  and 
stiffness,  falling  back,  as  if  the  effort  were  impossible,  into 
meek  dejection.  Still  the  prevalent  character  of  the  man's 
mood  and  talk  was  social,  quaint,  cheerful.  Evidently  he 
was  by  original  temperament  a  droll  and  joyous  humourist, 
with  high  animal  spirits;  and,  withal,  an  infantine  simplicity 
at  times,  like  the  clever  man  who  never  learns  the  world  and 
is  always  taken  in. 

A  circumstance,  trifling  in  itself,  but  suggestive  of  specu- 
lation either  as  to  the  character  or  antecedent  circumstances 
of  Gentleman  Waife,  did  not  escape  Vance's  observation. 
Since  his  rupture  with  Mr.  Rugge,  there  was  a  considerable 
amelioration  in  that  affection  of  the  trachea,  which,  while 
his  engagement  with  Rugge  lasted,  had  rendered  the  Come- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  55 

dian's  dramatic  talents  unavailable  on  the  stage.  He  now  ex- 
pressed himself  without  the  pathetic  hoarseness  or  cavernous 
wheeze  which  had  previously  thrown  a  wet  blanket  over  his 
efforts  at  discourse.  But  Vance  put  no  very  stern  construc- 
tion on  the  dissimulation  which  his  change  seemed  to  denote. 
Since  Waife  was  still  one-eyed  and  a  cripple,  he  might  very 
excusably  shrink  from  reappearance  on  the  stage,  and  affect 
a  third  infirmity  to  save  his  pride  from  the  exhibition  of  the 
two  infirmities  that  were  genuine. 

That  which  most  puzzled  Vance  was  that  which  had  most 
puzzled  the  Cobbler, —  What  could  the  man  once  have  been? — 
how  fallen  so  low?  —  for  fall  it  was,  that  was  clear.  The 
painter,  though  not  himself  of  patrician  extraction,  had  been 
much  in  the  best  society.  He  had  been  a  petted  favourite  in 
great  houses.  He  had  travelled.  He  had  seen  the  world. 
He  had  the  habits  and  instincts  of  good  society. 

Now,  in  what  the  French  term  the  beau  monde,  there  are 
little  traits  that  reveal  those  who  have  entered  it, —  certain 
tricks  of  phrase,  certain  modes  of  expression, —  even  the  pro- 
nunciation of  familiar  words,  even  the  modulation  of  an  ac- 
cent. A  man  of  the  most  refined  bearing  may  not  have  these 
peculiarities;  a  man,  otherwise  coarse  and  brusque  in  his 
manner,  may.  The  slang  of  the  beau  monde  is  quite  apart 
from  the  code  of  high  breeding.  Now  and  then,  something 
in  Waife's  talk  seemed  to  show  that  he  had  lighted  on  that 
beau-world;  now  and  then,  that  something  wholly  vanished. 
So  that  Vance  might  have  said,  "He  has  been  admitted  there, 
not  inhabited  it." 

Yet  Vance  could  not  feel  sure,  after  all;  comedians  are 
such  takes  in.  But  was  the  man,  by  the  profession  of 
his  earlier  life,  a  comedian?  Vance  asked  the  question 
adroitly. 

"  You  must  have  taken  to  the  stage  young?  "  said  he. 

"  The  stage !  "  said  Waife ;  "  if  you  mean  the  public  stage, 
no.  I  have  acted  pretty  often  in  youth,  even  in  childhood, 
to  amuse  others,  never  professionally  to  support  myself,  till 
Mr.  Rugge  civilly  engaged  me  four  years  ago." 

"Is  it  possible, —  with  your  excellent  education!     But  par- 


56  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

don  me;  I  have  hinted  my  surprise  at  your  late  vocation  be- 
fore, and  it  displeased  you." 

"  Displeased  me ! "  said  Waife,  with  an  abject,  depressed 
manner;  "I  hope  I  said  nothing  that  would  have  misbecome 
a  poor  broken  vagabond  like  me.  I  am  no  prince  in  disguise, 
—  a  good-for-nothing  varlet  who  should  be  too  grateful  to 
have  something  to  keep  himself  from  a  dunghill." 

LIONEL.  —  "  Don't  talk  so.  And  but  for  your  accident  you 
might  now  be  the  great  attraction  on  the  metropolitan  stage. 
Who  does  not  respect  a  really  fine  actor?" 

WAIFE  (gloomily).  —  "The  metropolitan  stage!  I  was 
talked  into  it :  I  am  glad  even  of  the  accident  that  saved  me ; 
say  no  more  of  that,  no  more  of  that.  But  I  have  spoiled 
your  sitting:  Sophy,  you  see,  has  left  her  chair." 

"I  have  done  for  to-day,"  said  Vance;  "to-morrow,  and 
my  task  is  ended." 

Lionel  came  up  to  Vance  and  whispered  him;  the  painter, 
after  a  pause,  nodded  silently,  and  then  said  to  Waife, — 

"We  are  going  to  enjoy  the  fine  weather  on  the  Thames 
(after  I  have  put  away  these  things),  and  shall  return  to  our 
inn  —  not  far  hence  —  to  sup,  at  eight  o'clock.  Supper  is  our 
principal  meal;  we  rarely  spoil  our  days  by  the  ceremonial  of 
a  formal  dinner.  Will  you  do  us  the  favour  to  sup  with  us? 
Our  host  has  a  wonderful  whiskey,  which  when  raw  is  Glen- 
livat,  but  refined  into  toddy  is  nectar.  Bring  your  pipe,  and 
let  us  hear  John  Kemble  again." 

Waife's  face  lighted  up.  "You  are  most  kind;  nothing  I 
should  like  so  much.  But  — "  and  the  light  fled,  the  face 
darkened  —  "  but  no ;  I  cannot  —  you  don't  know  —  that  is  — 
I  —  I  have  made  a  vow  to  myself  to  decline  all  such  tempta- 
tions. I  humbly  beg  you  '11  excuse  me." 

VANCE.  —  "  Temptations !  of  what  kind,  —  the  whiskey 
toddy?  " 

WAIFE  (puffing  away  a  sigh).  —  "Ah,  yes;  whiskey  toddy, 
if  you  please.  Perhaps  I  once  loved  a  glass  too  well,  and 
could  not  resist  a  glass  too  much  now;  and  if  I  once  broke 
the  rule  and  became  a  tippler,  what  would  happen  to  Juliet 
Araminta?  For  her  sake  don't  press  me." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  57 

"Oh,  do  go,  Grandy;  lie  never  drinks, —  never  anything 
stronger  than  tea,  I  assure  you,  sir:  it  can't  be  that." 

"It  is,  silly  child,  and  nothing  else,"  said  Waif e,  positively, 
drawing  himself  up,  — "excuse  me." 

Lionel  began  brushing  his  hat  with  his  sleeve,  and  his  face 
worked;  at  last  he  said,  "Well,  sir,  then  may  I  ask  another 
favour?  Mr.  Vance  and  I  are  going  to-morrow,  after  the  sit- 
ting, to  see  Hampton  Court;  we  have  kept  that  excursion  to 
the  last  before  leaving  these  parts.  Would  you  and  little 
Sophy  come  with  us  in  the  boat?  We  will  have  no  whiskey 
toddy,  and  we  will  bring  you  both  safe  home." 

WAIFE. —  "  What  —  I !  what  — I  !  You  are  very  young,  sir, 
—  a  gentleman  born  and  bred,  I  '11  swear;  and  you  to  be  seen, 
perhaps  by  some  of  your  friends  or  family,  with  an  old  va- 
grant like  me,  in  the  Queen's  palace,  —  the  public  gardens ! 
I  should  be  the  vilest  wretch  if  I  took  such  advantage  of  your 
goodness.  'Pretty  company,'  they  would  say,  'you  had  got 
into.'  With  me!  with  me!  Don't  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Vance: 
not  to  be  thought  of." 

The  young  men  were  deeply  affected. 

"I  can't  accept  that  reason,"  said  Lionel,  tremulously, 
"though  I  must  not  presume  to  derange  your  habits.  But 
she  may  go  with  us,  mayn't  she?  We'll  take  care  of  her, 
and  she  is  dressed  so  plainly  and  neatly,  and  looks  such  a 
little  lady"  (turning  to  Vance). 

"Yes,  let  her  come  with  us,"  said  the  artist,  benevolently; 
though  he  by  no  means  shared  in  Lionel's  enthusiastic  desire 
for  her  company.  He  thought  she  would  be  greatly  in  their 
way. 

"  Heaven  bless  you  both !  "  answered  Waife ;  "  and  she 
wants  a  holiday:  she  shall  have  It." 

"I  'd  rather  stay  with  you,  Grandy:  you  '11  be  so  lone." 

"No,  I  wish  to  be  out  all  to-morrow, —  the  investment!  I 
shall  not  be  alone ;  making  friends  with  our  future  compan- 
ion, Sophy." 

"And  can  do  without  me  already?  heigh-ho!  " 

VANCE.  — "So  that 's  settled;  good-by  to  you." 


58  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

INSPIRING  effect  of  the  Fine  Arts :  the  vulgar  are  moved  by  their  exhibition 
into  generous  impulses  and  flights  of  fancy,  checked  by  the  ungracious 
severities  of  their  superiors,  as  exemplified  in  the  instance  of  Cobbler 
Merle  and  his  servant  of -all- work. 

THE  next  day,  perhaps  with  the  idea  of  removing  all  scru- 
ple from  Sophy's  mind,  Waife  had  already  gone  after  his  in- 
vestment when  the  friends  arrived.  Sophy  at  first  was  dull 
and  dispirited,  but  by  degrees  she  brightened  up ;  and  when, 
the  sitting  over  and  the  picture  done  (save  such  final  touches 
as  Vance  reserved  for  solitary  study),  she  was  permitted  to 
gaze  at  her  own  effigy,  she  burst  into  exclamations  of  frank 
delight.  "Am  I  like  that!  is  it  possible?  Oh,  how  beauti- 
ful! Mr.  Merle,  Mr.  Merle,  Mr.  Merle! "  and  running  out  of 
the  room  before  Vance  could  stop  her,  she  returned  with  the 
Cobbler,  followed,  too,  by  a  thin  gaunt  girl,  whom  he  pom- 
pously called  his  housekeeper,  but  who  in  sober  truth  was 
servant-of -all-work.  Wife  he  had  none:  his  horoscope,  he 
said,  having  Saturn  in  square  to  the  Seventh  House,  forbade 
him  to  venture  upon  matrimony.  All  gathered  round  the 
picture;  all  admired,  and  with  justice:  it  was  a  chef-d'oeuvre. 
Vance  in  his  maturest  day  never  painted  more  charmingly. 
The  three  pounds  proved  to  be  the  best  outlay  of  capital  he 
had  ever  made.  Pleased  with  his  work,  he  was  pleased  even 
with  that  unsophisticated  applause. 

"You  must  have  Mercury  and  Venus  very  strongly  as- 
pected,"  quoth  the  Cobbler;  "and  if  you  have  the  Dragon's 
Head  in  the  Tenth  House,  you  may  count  on  being  much 
talked  of  after  you  are  dead." 

"  After  I  am  dead !  —  sinister  omen ! "  said  Vance,  discom- 
posed. "  I  have  no  faith  in  artists  who  count  on  being  talked 
of  after  they  are  dead.  Never  knew  a  dauber  who  did  not ! 
But  stand  back:  time  flies;  tie  up  your  hair;  put  on  your 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  59 

bonnet,  Titania.  You  have  a  shawl?  —  not  tinsel,  I  hope!  — 
quieter  the  better.  You  stay  and  see  to  her,  Lionel." 

Said  the  gaunt  servant-of -all-work  to  Mr.  Merle,  "  I  'd  let 
the  gentleman  paint  me,  if  he  likes:  shall  I  tell  him, 
master?" 

"  Go  back  to  the  bacon,  foolish  woman.  Why,  he  gave  £3 
for  her  likeness,  'cause  of  her  Benefics !  But  you  'd  have  to 
give  him  three  years'  wages  afore  he  'd  look  you  straight  in 
the  face,  'cause,  you  see,  your  Aspects  are  crooked.  And," 
added  the  Cobbler,  philosophizing,  "when  the  Malefics  are 
dead  agin  a  girl's  mug,  man  is  so  constituted  by  natur'  that  he 
can't  take  to  that  mug  unless  it  has  a  golden  handle.  Don't 
fret,  't  is  not  your  fault :  born  under  Scorpio,  —  coarse- 
limbed, —  dull  complexion;  and  the  Head  of  the  Dragon  as- 
pected  of  Infortunes  in  all  your  Angles." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  historian  takes  advantage  of  the  summer  hours  vouchsafed  to  the  present 
life  of  Mr.  Waife's  grandchild,  in  order  to  throw  a  few  gleams  of  light  on 
her  past.  —  He  leads  her  into  the  palace  of  our  kings,  and  moralizes  there- 
on; and,  entering  the  Royal  Gardens,  shows  the  uncertainty  of  human 
events,  and  the  insecurity  of  British  laws,  hy  the  abrupt  seizure  and  con- 
strained deportation  of  an  innocent  and  nnforeboding  Englishman. 

SUCH  a  glorious  afternoon!  The  capricious  English  sum- 
mer was  so  kind  that  day  to  the  child  and  her  new  friends ! 
When  Sophy's  small  foot  once  trod  the  sward,  had  she  been 
really  Queen  of  the  Green  People,  sward  and  footstep  could 
not  more  joyously  have  met  together.  The  grasshopper 
bounded  in  fearless  trust  upon  the  hem  of  her  frock;  she 
threw  herself  down  on  the  grass  and  caught  him,  but,  oh,  so 
tenderly !  and  the  gay  insect,  dear  to  poet  and  fairy,  seemed 
to  look  at  her  from  that  quaint  sharp  face  of  his  with  saga- 
cious recognition,  resting  calmly  on  the  palm  of  her  pretty 


60  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

hand;  then  when  he  sprang  off,  little  moth-like  butterflies 
peculiar  to  the  margins  of  running  waters  quivered  up  from 
the  herbage,  fluttering  round  her.  And  there,  in  front,  lay 
the  Thames,  glittering  through  the  willows,  Vance  getting 
ready  the  boat,  Lionel  seated  by  her  side,  a  child  like  herself, 
his  pride  of  incipient  manhood  all  forgotten;  happy  in  her 
glee;  she  loving  him  for  the  joy  she  felt,  and  blending  his 
image  evermore  in  her  remembrance  with  her  first  summer 
holiday,  —  with  sunny  beams,  glistening  leaves,  warbling 
birds,  fairy  wings,  sparkling  waves.  Oh,  to  live  so  in  a 
child's  heart, —  innocent,  blessed,  angel-like, — better,  better 
than  the  troubled  reflection  upon  woman's  later  thoughts,  bet- 
ter than  that  mournful  illusion,  over  which  tears  so  bitter  are 
daily  shed, — better  than  First  Love!  They  entered  the  boat. 
Sophy  had  never,  to  the  best  of  her  recollection,  been  in  a 
boat  before.  All  was  new  to  her :  the  lifelike  speed  of  the 
little  vessel;  that  world  of  cool  green  weeds,  with  the  fish 
darting  to  and  fro ;  the  musical  chime  of  oars ;  those  distant 
stately  swans.  She  was  silent  now:  her  heart  was  very 
full. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Sophy?"  asked  Lionel,  resting 
on  the  oar. 

"Thinking!  —  I  was  not  thinking." 

"What  then?" 

"I  don't  know, —  feeling,  I  suppose." 

"Feeling  what?" 

"  As  if  between  sleeping  and  waking ;  as  the  water  perhaps 
feels,  with  the  sunlight  on  it! " 

"  Poetical, "  said  Vance,  who,  somewhat  of  a  poet  himself, 
naturally  sneered  at  poetical  tendencies  in  others ;  "  but  not 
so  bad  in  its  way.  Ah,  have  I  hurt  your  vanity?  there  are 
tears  in  your  eyes." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Sophy,  falteringly.  "But  I  was  thinking 
then." 

"Ah,"  said  the  artist,  "that 's  the  worst  of  it;  after  feeling 
ever  comes  thought;  what  was  yours?  " 

"  I  was  sorry  poor  Grandfather  was  not  here,  that 's 
all." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  61 

"It  was  not  our  fault:  we  pressed  him  cordially,"  said 
Lionel. 

"  You  did  indeed,  sir,  thank  you !  And  I  don't  know  why 
he  refused  you."  The  young  men  exchanged  compassionate 
glances. 

Lionel  then  sought  to  make  her  talk  of  her  past  life,  tell 
him  more  of  Mrs.  Crane.  Who  and  what  was  she? 

Sophy  could  not  or  would  not  tell.  The  remembrances 
were  painful;  she  had  evidently  tried  to  forget  them.  And 
the  people  with  whom  Waife  had  placed  her,  and  who  had 
been  kind? 

The  Misses  Burton;  and  they  kept  a  day-school,  and  taught 
Sophy  to  read,  write,  and  cipher.  They  lived  near  London, 
in  a  lane  opening  on  a  great  common,  with  a  green  rail  before 
the  house,  and  had  a  good  many  pupils,  and  kept  a  tortoise- 
shell  cat  and  a  canary.  Not  much  to  enlighten  her  listener 
did  Sophy  impart  here. 

And  now  they  neared  that  stately  palace,  rich  in  associa- 
tions of  storm  and  splendour,  —  of  the  grand  Cardinal ;  the 
iron-clad  Protector ;  Dutch  William  of  the  immortal  memory, 
whom  we  tried  so  hard  to  like,  and  in  spite  of  the  great 
Whig  historian,  that  Titian  of  English  prose,  can  only  frig- 
idly respect.  Hard  task  for  us  Britons  to  like  a  Dutchman 
who  dethrones  his  father-in-law,  and  drinks  schnaps !  Preju- 
dice certainly;  but  so  it  is.  Harder  still  to  like  Dutch  Wil- 
liam's unfilial  Frau!  Like  Queen  Mary!  I  could  as  soon  like 
Queen  Goneril!  Eomance  flies  from  the  prosperous  phleg- 
matic ^Eneas;  flies  from  his  plump  Lavinia,  his  "fidus 
Achates,"  Bentinck;  flies  to  follow  the  poor  deserted  fugitive 
Stuart,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head.  Kings  have  no  rights 
divine,  except  when  deposed  and  fallen;  they  are  then  in- 
vested with  the  awe  that  belongs  to  each  solemn  image  of 
mortal  vicissitude, —  vicissitude  that  startles  the  Epicurean, 
"insanientis  sapientiae  consultus,"  and  strikes  from  his  care- 
less lyre  the  notes  that  attest  a  god!  Some  proud  shadow 
chases  another  from  the  throne  of  Cyrus,  and  Horace  hears 
in  the  thunder  the  rush  of  Diespiter,  and  identifies  Providence 
with  the  Fortune  that  snatches  off  the  diadem  in  her  whirring 


62  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

swoop.1  But  fronts  discrowned  take  a  new  majesty  to  gen- 
erous natures :  in  all  sleek  prosperity  there  is  something  com- 
monplace ;  in  all  grand  adversity,  something  royal. 

The  boat  shot  to  the  shore ;  the  young  people  landed,  and 
entered  the  arch  of  the  desolate  palace.  They  gazed  on  the 
great  hall  and  the  presence-chamber,  and  the  long  suite  of 
rooms  with  faded  portraits ;  Vance  as  an  artist,  Lionel  as  an 
enthusiastic,  well-read  boy,  Sophy  as  a  wondering,  bewil- 
dered, ignorant  child.  And  then  they  emerged  into  the  noble 
garden,  with  its  regal  trees.  Groups  were  there  of  well- 
dressed  persons.  Vance  heard  himself  called  by  name.  He 
had  forgotten  the  London  world, —  forgotten,  amidst  his  mid- 
summer ramblings,  that  the  London  season  was  still  ablaze; 
and  there,  stragglers  from  the  great  focus,  fine  people,  with 
languid  tones  and  artificial  jaded  smiles,  caught  him  in  his 
wanderer's  dress,  and  walking  side  by  side  with  the  infant 
wonder  of  Mr.  Rugge's  show,  exquisitely  neat  indeed,  but 
still  in  a  coloured  print,  of  a  pattern  familiar  to  his  obser- 
vant eye  in  the  windows  of  many  a  shop  lavish  of  tickets, 
and  inviting  you  to  come  in  by  the  assurance  that  it  is  "  sell- 
ing off."  The  artist  stopped,  coloured,  bowed,  answered  the 
listless  questions  put  to  him  with  shy  haste:  he  then  at- 
tempted to  escape;  they  would  not  let  him. 

"You  must  come  back  and  dine  with  us  at  the  Star  and 
Garter,"  said  Lady  Selina  Vipont.  "A  pleasant  party, — you 
know  most  of  them, — the  Dudley  Slowes,  dear  old  Lady 
Frost,  those  pretty  Ladies  Prymme,  Janet  and  Wilhelmina." 

"We  can't  let  you  off,"  said,  sleepily,  Mr.  Crampe,  a  fash- 

1   "  Valet  ima  summis 
Mutare,  et  insignem  attenuat  Dens, 
Obscnra  promens ;  hinc  apicem  rapax 
Fortuna  cum  stridore  acuto 

Sustulit,  —  hie  posuisse  gaudet." 

HORACE  :  Carm.  lib.  i.  xxxiv. 

The  concluding  allusion  is  evidently  to  the  Parthian  revolutions,  and  the 
changeful  fate  of  Pharaates  IV. ;  and  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  the  preceding 
lines  upon  the  phenomenon  of  the  thunder  in  a  serene  sky  have  not  a  latent 
and  half-allegorical  meaning,  dimly  applicable,  throughout,  to  the  historical 
reference  at  the  close. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  63 

ionable  wit,  who  rarely  made  more  than  one  Ion  mot  in  the 
twenty-four  hours,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  in  a  torpid 
state. 

VANCE.  — "  Really  you  are  too  kind,  but  I  am  not  even 
dressed  for  —  " 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "So  charmingly  dressed  —  so  picturesque! 
Besides,  what  matters?  Every  one  knows  who  you  are. 
Where  on  earth  have  you  been?" 

VANCE.  — "Rambling  about,  taking  sketches." 

LADY  SELINA  (directing  her  eyeglass  towards  Lionel  and 
Sophy,  who  stood  aloof).  —  "But  your  companions,  your 
brother?  and  that  pretty  little  girl, — your  sister,  I  suppose?" 

VANCE  (shuddering). — "No,  not  relations.  I  took  charge 
of  the  boy, —  clever  young  fellow;  and  the  little  girl  is  —  " 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "  Yes.     The  little  girl  is  —  " 

VANCE. — "A  little  girl,  as  you  see:  and  very  pretty,  as  you 
say, — subject  for  a  picture." 

LADY  SELINA  (indifferently). — "Oh,  let  the  children  go 
and  amuse  themselves  somewhere.  Now  we  have  found  you; 
positively  you  are  our  prisoner." 

Lady  Selina  Vipont  was  one  of  the  queens  of  London;  she 
had  with  her  that  habit  of  command  natural  to  such  royalties. 
Frank  Vance  was  no  tuft-hunter,  but  once  under  social  influ- 
ences, they  had  their  effect  on  him,  as  on  most  men  who  are 
blest  with  noses  in  the  air.  Those  great  ladies,  it  is  true, 
never  bought  his  pictures;  but  they  gave  him  the  position 
which  induced  others  to  buy  them.  Vance  loved  his  art;  his 
art  needed  its  career.  Its  career  was  certainly  brightened 
and  'quickened  by  the  help  of  rank  and  fashion. 

In  short,  Lady  Selina  triumphed,  and  the  painter  stepped 
back  to  Lionel.  "  I  must  go  to  Richmond  with  these  people. 
I  know  you  '11  excuse  me.  I  shall  be  back  to-night  somehow. 
By  the  by,  as  you  are  going  to  the  post-office  here  for  the 
letter  you  expect  from  your  mother,  ask  for  my  letters  too. 
You  will  take  care  of  little  Sophy,  and  [in  a  whisper]  hurry 
her  out  of  the  garden,  or  that  Grand  Mogul  feminine,  Lady 
Selina,  whose  condescension  would  crush  the  Andes,  will  be 
stopping  her  as  my  prottgie,  falling  in  raptures  with  that 


64  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

horrid  coloured  print,  saying,  '  Dear,  what  pretty  sprigs ! 
where  can  such  things  be  got? '  and  learning  perhaps  how 
Frank  Vance  saved  the  Bandit's  Child  from  the  Remorseless 
Baron.  'T  is  your  turn  now.  Save  your  friend.  The  Baron 
was  a  lamb  compared  to  a  fine  lady."  He  pressed  Lionel's 
unresponding  hand,  and  was  off  to  join  the  polite  merrymak- 
ing of  the  Frosts,  Slowes,  and  Prymmes. 

Lionel's  pride  ran  up  to  the  fever-heat  of  its  thermometer; 
more  roused,  though,  on  behalf  of  the  unconscious  Sophy 
than  himself. 

"  Let  us  come  into  the  town,  lady -bird,  and  choose  a  doll. 
You  may  have  one  now,  without  fear  of  distracting  you  from 
what  I  hate  to  think  you  ever  stooped  to  perform." 

As  Lionel,  his  crest  erect  and  nostril  dilated,  and  holding 
Sophy  firmly  by  the  hand,  took  his  way  out  from  the  gardens, 
he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  patrician  party,  of  whom  Vance 
now  made  one. 

His  countenance  and  air,  as  he  swept  by,  struck  them  all, 
especially  Lady  Selina.  "A  very  distinguished-looking  boy," 
said  she.  "  What  a  fine  face !  Who  did  you  say  he  was,  Mr. 
Vance?" 

VANCE.  — "His  name  is  Haughton, —  Lionel  Haughton." 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "  Haughton !  Haughton !  Any  relation  to 
poor  dear  Captain  Haughton, —  Charlie  Haughton,  as  he  was 
generally  called?  " 

Vance,  knowing  little  more  of  his  young  friend's  parent- 
age than  that  his  mother  let  lodgings,  at  which,  once  dom- 
iciliated  himself,  he  had  made  the  boy's  acquaintance,  and 
that  she  enjoyed  the  pension  of  a  captain's  widow,  replied 
carelessly,  — 

"His  father  was  a  captain,  but  I  don't  know  whether  he 
was  a  Charlie." 

MR.  CRAMPE  (the  wit).  —  "Charlies  are  extinct!  I  have 
the  last  in  a  fossil, — bos  and  all." 

General  laugh.     Wit  shut  up  again. 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "  He  has  a  great  look  of  Charlie  Haugh- 
ton. Do  you  know  if  he  is  connected  with  that  extraordinary 
man,  Mr.  Darrell?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  65 

VANCE.  —  "  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not.  What  Mr.  Darrell 
do  you  mean?" 

Lady  Selina,  with  one  of  those  sublime  looks  of  celestial 
pity  with  which  personages  in  the  great  world  forgive  igno- 
rance of  names  and  genealogies  in  those  not  born  within  its 
orbit,  replied,  "  Oh,  to  be  sure.  It  is  not  exactly  in  the  way 
of  your  delightful  art  to  know  Mr.  Darrell,  one  of  the  first 
men  in  Parliament,  a  connection  of  mine." 

LADY  FROST  (nippingly). — "You  mean  Guy  Darrell,  the 
lawyer." 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "  Lawyer  —  true ;  now  I  think  of  it,  he 
was  a  lawyer.  But  his  chief  fame  was  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. All  parties  agreed  that  he  might  have  commanded 
any  station}  but  he  was  too  rich  perhaps  to  care  sufficiently 
about  office.  At  all  events,  Parliament  was  dissolved  when 
he  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputation,  and  he  refused  to  be 
re-elected." 

One  SIB  GREGORY  STOLLHEAD  (a  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  young,  wealthy,  a  constant  attendant,  of  great 
promise,  with  speeches  that  were  filled  with  facts,  and  emp- 
tied the  benches).  —  "I  have  heard  of  him.  Before  my  time; 
lawyers  not  much  weight  in  the  House  now." 

LADY  SELINA.  —  "  I  am  told  that  Mr.  Darrell  did  not  speak 
like  a  lawyer.  But  his  career  is  over;  lives  in  the  country, 
and  sees  nobody;  a  thousand  pities;  a  connection  of  mine, 
too;  great  loss  to  the  country.  Ask  your  young  friend,  Mr. 
Vance,  if  Mr.  Darrell  is  not  his  relation.  I  hope  so,  for  his 
sake.  Now  that  our  party  is  in  power,  Mr.  Darrell  could 
command  anything  for  others,  though  he  has  ceased  to  act 
with  us.  Our  party  is  not  forgetful  of  talent." 

LADY  FROST  (with  icy  crispness).  — "I  should  think  not: 
it  has  so  little  of  that  kind  to  remember." 

SIR  GREGORY.  —  "Talent  is  not  wanted  in  the  House  of 
Commons  now;  don't  go  down,  in  fact.  Business  assembly." 

LADY  SELINA  (suppressing  a  yawn).  —  "Beautiful  day! 
We  had  better  think  of  going  back  to  Richmond." 

General  assent,  and  slow  retreat. 

VOL.  1.  —  5 


66  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  historian  records  the  attachment  to  public  business  which  distinguishes 
the  British  legislator.  —  Touching  instance  of  the  regret  which  ever  in 
patriotic  bosoms  attends  the  neglect  of  a  public  duty. 

FROM  the  dusty  height  of  a  rumble-tumble  affixed  to  Lady 
Selina  Vipont's  barouche,  and  by  the  animated  side  of  Sir 
Gregory  Stollhead,  Vance  caught  sight  of  Lionel  and  Sophy 
at  a  corner  of  the  spacious  green  near  the  Palace.  He  sighed; 
he  envied  them.  He  thought  of  the  boat,  the  water,  the 
honeysuckle  arbour  at  the  little  inn, —  pleasures  he  had  de- 
nied himself, —  pleasures  all  in  his  own  way.  They  seemed 
still  more  alluring  by  contrast  with  the  prospect  before  him ; 
formal  dinner  at  the  Star  and  Garter,  with  titled  Prymnies, 
Slowes,  and  Frosts,  a  couple  of  guineas  a  head,  including 
light  wines,  which  he  did  not  drink,  and  the  expense  of  a 
chaise  back  by  himself.  But  such  are  life  and  its  social  du- 
ties,—  such,  above  all,  ambition  and  a  career.  Who  that 
would  leave  a  name  on  his  tombstone  can  say  to  his  own 
heart,  "Perish  Stars  and  Garters:  my  existence  shall  pass 
from  day  to  day  in  honeysuckle  arbours ! " 

Sir  Gregory  Stollhead  interrupted  Vance's  revery  by  an 
impassioned  sneeze.  "Dreadful  smell  of  hay!  "  said  the  legis- 
lator, with  watery  eyes.  "Are  you  subject  to  the  hay  fever? 
I  am !  A  —  tisha  —  tisha  —  tisha  [sneezing]  —  country  fright- 
fully unwholesome  at  this  time  of  year.  And  to  think  that  I 
ought  now  to  be  In  the  House, —  in  my  committee-room;  no 
smell  of  hay  there;  most  important  committee." 

VANCE  (rousing  himself).  —  "Ah  —  on  what? " 

SIR  GREGORY  (regretfully).  —  "Sewers." 


68  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

instinctively  put  off  the  task  of  reading  the  one  he  held,  till 
satisfied  hunger  and  cool-breathing  shadows,  and  rest  from 
the  dusty  road,  had  lent  their  soothing  aid  to  his  undeveloped 
philosophy. 

He  broke  the  seal  slowly;  another  letter  was  enclosed 
within.  At  the  first  few  words  his  countenance  changed;  he 
uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  read  on  eagerly;  then,  before 
concluding  his  mother's  epistle,  hastily  tore  open  that  which 
it  had  contained,  ran  his  eye  over  its  contents,  and,  dropping 
both  letters  on  the  turf  below,  rested  his  face  on  his  hand  in 
agitated  thought.  Thus  ran  his  mother's  letter:  — 

MY  DEAR  BOY,  —  How  could  you  1  Do  it  slyly  1 1  Unknown  to 
your  own  mother ! !  1  I  could  not  believe  it  of  you ! ! ! !  Take  advan- 
tage of  my  confidence  in  showing  you  the  letters  of  your  father's 
cousin,  to  write  to  himself  —  clandestinely !  —  you,  who  I  thought  had 
such  an  open  character,  and  who  ought  to  appreciate  mine.  Every  one 
who  knows  me  says  I  am  a  woman  in  ten  thousand,  —  not  for  beauty 
and  talent  (though  I  have  had  my  admirers  for  them  too),  but  for  GOOD- 
NESS 1  As  a  wife  and  mother,  I  may  say  I  have  been  exemplary.  I  had 
sore  trials  with  the  dear  captain  —  and  IMMENSE  temptations.  But  he 
said  on  his  death-bed,  "  Jessica,  you  are  an  angel."  And  I  have  had 
offers  since,  —  IMMENSE  offers,  —  but  I  devoted  myself  to  my  child,  as 
you  know.  And  what  I  have  put  up  with,  letting  the  first  floor,  nobody 
can  tell ;  and  only  a  widow's  pension,  —  going  before  a  magistrate  to  get 
it  paid  !  And  to  think  my  own  child,  for  whom  I  have  borne  so  much, 
should  behave  so  cruelly  to  me  !  Clandestine  1  't  is  that  which  stabs  me. 
Mrs.  Inman  found  me  crying,  and  said,  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  —  you 
who  are  such  an  angel,  crying  like  a  baby !  "  And  I  could  not  help  say- 
ing, "  'T  is  the  serpent's  tooth,  Mrs.  I."  What  you  wrote  to  your  bene- 
factor (and  I  had  hoped  patron)  I  don't  care  to  guess ;  something  very 
rude  and  imprudent  it  must  be,  judging  by  the  few  lines  he  addressed  to 
me.  I  don't  mind  copying  them  for  you  to  read.  All  my  acts  are  above- 
board,  as  often  and  often  Captain  H.  used  to  say,  "  Your  heart  is  in  a 
glass  case,  Jessica ; "  and  so  it  is !  but  my  son  keeps  his  under  lock  and 
key. 

"  Madam  [this  is  what  he  writes  to  me],  your  son  has  thought  fit  to 
infringe  the  condition  upon  which  I  agreed  to  assist  you  on  his  behalf. 
I  enclose  a  reply  to  himself,  which  I  beg  you  will  give  to  his  own  hands 
without  breaking  the  seal.  Since  it  did  not  seem  to  you  indiscreet  to 
communicate  to  a  boy  of  his  years  letters  written  solely  to  yourself,  you 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  69 

cannot  blame  me  if  I  take  your  implied  estimate  of  his  capacity  to  judge 
for  himself  of  the  nature  of  a  correspondence,  and  of  the  views  and 
temper  of,  madam,  your  very  obedient  servant."  And  that 's  all  to  me. 
I  send  his  letter  to  you,  —  seal  unbroken.  I  conclude  he  has  done  with 
you  forever,  and  your  CAREER  is  lost/  But  if  it  be  so,  oh,  my  poor, 
poor  child  I  at  that  thought  I  have  not  the  heart  to  scold  you  further. 
If  it  be  so,  come  home  to  me,  and  I  '11  work  and  slave  for  you,  and  you 
shall  keep  up  your  head  and  be  a  gentleman  still,  as  you  are,  every  inch 
of  you.  Don't  mind  what  I  've  said  at  the  beginning,  dear :  don't  you 
know  I  'm  hasty ;  and  I  was  hurt.  But  you  could  not  mean  to  be  sly  and 
underhand :  't  was  only  your  high  spirit ,  and  it  was  my  fault ;  I  should 
not  have  shown  you  the  letters.  I  hope  you  are  well,  and  have  quite 
lost  that  nasty  cough,  and  that  Mr.  Vance  trea.ts  you  with  proper 
respect.  I  think  him  rather  too  pushing  and  familiar,  though  a  pleasant 
young  man  on  the  whole.  But,  after  all,  he  is  only  a  painter  Bless 
you,  my  child,  and  don't  have  secrets  again  from  your  poor  mother. 

JESSICA  HAUGHTON. 

The  enclosed  letter  was  as  follows :  — 

LIONEL  HAUGHTON, —  Some  men  might  be  displeased  at  receiving 
such  a  letter  as  you  have  addressed  to  me  ;  I  am  not.  At  your  years, 
and  under  the  same  circumstances,  I  might  have  written  a  letter  much 
in  the  same  spirit.  Relieve  your  mind :  as  yet  you  owe  me  no  obliga- 
tions ;  you  have  only  received  back  a  debt  due  to  you.  My  father  was 
poor  ;  your  grandfather,  Robert  Haughton,  assisted  him  in  the  cost  of 
my  education.  I  have  assisted  your  father's  son  ;  we  are  quits.  Before, 
however,  we  decide  on  having  done  with  each  other  for  the  future,  I 
suggest  to  you  to  pay  me  a  short  visit.  Probably  I  shall  not  like  you, 
nor  you  me.  But  we  are  both  gentlemen,  and  need  not  show  dislike  too 
coarsely.  If  you  decide  on  coming,  come  at  once,  or  possibly  you  may 
not  find  me  here.  If  you  refuse,  I  shall  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your 
sense  and  temper,  and  in  a  week  I  shall  have  forgotten  your  existence. 
I  ought  to  add  that  your  father  and  I  were  cnce  warm  friends,  and  that 
by  descent  I  am  the  head  not  only  of  my  own  race,  which  ends  with  me, 
but  of  the  Haughton  family,  of  which,  though  your  line  assumed  the 
name,  it  was  but  a  younger  branch.  Nowadays  young  men  are  probably 
not  brought  up  to  care  for  these  things  :  I  was.  Yours, 

GUY  HAUOHTON  DARRELL. 

MANOR  HOUSE,  FAWLEY. 

Sophy  picked  up  the  fallen  letters,  placed  them  on  Lionel's 
lap,  and  looked  into  his  face  wistfully.  He  smiled,  resumed 


70  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

his  mother's  epistle,  and  read  the  concluding  passages,  which 
he  had  before  omitted.  Their  sudden  turn  from  reproof  to 
tenderness  melted  him.  He  began  to  feel  that  his  mother 
had  a  right  to  blame  him  for  an  act  of  concealment.  Still 
she  never  would  have  consented  to  his  writing  such  a  letter ; 
and  had  that  letter  been  attended  with  so  ill  a  result?  Again 
he  read  Mr.  Darrell's  blunt  but  not  offensive  lines.  His 
pride  was  soothed :  why  should  he  not  now  love  his  father's 
friend?  He  rose  briskly,  paid  for  the  fruit,  and  went  his 
way  back  to  the  boat  with  Sophy.  As  his  oars  cut  the  wave 
he  talked  gayly,  but  he  ceased  to  interrogate  Sophy  on  her 
past.  Energetic,  sanguine,  ambitious,  his  own  future  entered 
now  into  his  thoughts.  Still,  when  the  sun  sank  as  the  inn 
came  partially  into  view  from  the  winding  of  the  banks  and 
the  fringe  of  the  willows,  his  mind  again  settled  on  the  pa- 
tient, quiet  little  girl,  who  had  not  ventured  to  ask  him  one 
question  in  return  for  all  he  had  put  so  unceremoniously  to 
her.  Indeed,  she  was  silently  musing  over  words  he  had  in- 
considerately let  fall, —  "What  I  hate  to  think  you  had  ever 
stooped  to  perform."  Little  could  Lionel  guess  the  unquiet 
thoughts  which  those  words  might  hereafter  call  forth  from 
the  brooding  deepening  meditations  of  lonely  childhood!  At 
length  said  the  boy  abruptly,  as  he  had  said  once  before, — 

"I  wish,  Sophy,  you  were  my  sister."  He  added  in  a  sad- 
dened tone,  "  I  never  had  a  sister :  I  have  so  longed  for  one ! 
However,  surely  we  shall  meet  again.  You  go  to-morrow: 
so  must  I." 

Sophy's  tears  flowed  softly,  noiselessly. 

"Cheer  up,  lady -bird,  I  wish  you  liked  me  half  as  much 
as  I  like  you ! " 

"  I  do  like  you :  oh,  so  much !  "  cried  Sophy,  passionately. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  write,  you  say?" 

"A  little." 

"  You  shall  write  to  me  now  and  then,  and  I  to  you.  I  '11 
talk  to  your  grandfather  about  it.  Ah,  there  he  is,  surely !  " 

The  boat  now  ran  into  the  shelving  creek,  and  by  the 
honeysuckle  arbour  stood  Gentleman  Waife,  leaning  on  his 
stick. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  71 

"  You  are  late, "  said  the  actor,  as  they  landed,  and  Sophy 
sprang  into  his  arms.  "  I  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  came  here 
to  inquire  after  you.  You  have  not  caught  cold,  child?  " 

SOPHY. —"Oh,  no." 

LIONEL.  —  "  She  is  the  best  of  children.  Pray,  come  into 
the  inn,  Mr.  Waife;  no  toddy,  but  some  refreshment." 

WAIFE.  — "I  thank  you, —  no,  sir;  I  wish  to  get  home  at 
once.  I  walk  slowly;  it  will  be  dark  soon." 

Lionel  tried  in  vain  to  detain  him.  There  was  a  certain 
change  in  Mr.  Waife's  manner  to  him:  it  was  much  more  dis- 
tant; it  was  even  pettish,  if  not  surly.  Lionel  could  not  ac- 
count for  it;  thought  it  mere  whim  at  first:  but  as  he  walked 
part  of  the  way  back  with  them  towards  the  village,  this 
asperity  continued,  nay  increased.  Lionel  was  hurt;  he 
arrested  his  steps. 

"I  see  you  wish  to  have  your  grandchild  to  yourself  now. 
May  I  call  early  to-morrow?  Sophy  will  tell  you  that  I  hope 
we  may  not  altogether  lose  sight  of  each  other.  I  will  give 
you  my  address  when  I  call." 

"What  time  to-morrow,  sir?" 

"About  nine." 

Waife  bowed  his  head  and  walked  on,  but  Sophy  looked 
back  towards  her  boy  friend,  sorrowfully,  gratefully ;  twilight 
in  the  skies  that  had  been  so  sunny, —  twilight  in  her  face 
that  had  been  so  glad !  She  looked  back  once,  twice,  thrice, 
as  Lionel  halted  on  the  road  and  kissed  his  hand.  The  third 
time  Waife  said  with  unwonted  crossness,  — 

"Enough  of  that,  Sophy;  looking  after  young  men  is  not 
proper!  What  does  he  mean  about  'seeing  each  other,  and 
giving  me  his  address  '  ? " 

"  He  wished  me  to  write  to  him  sometimes  and  he  would 
write  to  me." 

Waife's  brow  contracted;  but  if,  in  the  excess  of  grand- 
fatherly  caution,  he  could  have  supposed  that  the  bright- 
hearted  boy  of  seventeen  meditated  ulterior  ill  to  that  fairy 
child  in  such  a  scheme  for  correspondence,  he  must  have  been 
in  his  dotage,  and  he  had  not  hitherto  evinced  any  signs  of 
that. 


72  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Farewell,  pretty  Sophy !  the  evening  star  shines  upon  yon 
elm-tree  that  hides  thee  from  view.  Fading  —  fading  grows 
the  summer  landscape ;  faded  already  from  the  landscape  thy 
gentle  image!  So  ends  a  holiday  in  life.  Hallow  it,  Sophy; 
hallow  it,  Lionel!  Life's  holidays  are  not  too  many! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BY  this  chapter  it  appeareth  that  he  who  sets  out  on  a  career  can  scarcely 
expect  to  walk  in  perfect  comfort,  if  he  exchanges  his  own  thick-soled 
shoes  for  dress-boots  which  were  made  for  another  man's  measure,  and 
that  the  said  boots  may  not  the  less  pinch  for  being  brilliantly  varnished. 
—  It  also  showeth,  for  the  instruction  of  Men  and  States,  the  connection 
between  democratic  opinion  and  wounded  self-love ;  so  that,  if  some  Lib- 
eral statesman  desire  to  rouse  against  an  aristocracy  the  class  just  below 
it,  he  has  only  to  persuade  a  fine  lady  to  be  exceedingly  civil  "  to  that  sort 
of  people." 

VANCE,  returning  late  at  night,  found  his  friend  still  up  in 
the  little  parlour,  the  windows  open,  pacing  the  floor  with 
restless  strides,  stopping  now  and  then  to  look  at  the  moon 
upon  the  river. 

"Such  a  day  as  I  have  had!  and  twelve  shillings  for  the 
fly,  'pikes  not  included,"  said  Vance,  much  out  of  humour  — 

" '  I  fly  from  plate,  I  fly  from  pomp, 
I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin ; ' 

I  forget  the  third  line.     I  know  the  last  is  — 
" '  To  find  my  welcome  at  an  inn.' 

You  are  silent:  I  annoyed  you  by  going  —  could  not  help  it  — 
pity  me,  and  lock  up  your  pride." 

"  No,  my  dear  Vance,  I  was  hurt  for  a  moment,  but  that 's 
long  since  over ! " 

"Still  you  seem  to  have  something  on  your  mind,"  said 
Vance,  who  had  now  finished  reading  his  letters,  lighted  his 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  73 

cigar,  and  was  leaning  against  the  window  as  the  boy  con- 
tinued to  walk  to  and  fro. 

"  That  is  true :  I  have.  I  should  like  your  advice.  Bead 
that  letter.  Ought  I  to  go?  Would  it  look  mercenary, — 
grasping?  You  know  what  I  mean." 

Vance  approached  the  candles  and  took  the  letter.  He 
glanced  first  at  the  signature.  "Darrell,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  it  is  so,  then ! "  He  read  with  great  attention,  put  down 
the  letter,  and  shook  Lionel  by  the  hand.  "I  congratulate 
you:  all  is  settled  as  it  should  be.  Go?  of  course:  you  would 
be  an  ill-mannered  lout  if  you  did  not.  Is  it  far  from  hence : 
must  you  return  to  town  first?  " 

LIONEL. — "No,  I  find  I  can  get  across  the  country, — two 
hours  by  the  railway.  There  is  a  station  at  the  town  which 
bears  the  post-mark  of  the  letter.  I  shall  make  for  that,  if 
you  advise  it." 

"You  knew  I  should  advise  it,  or  you  would  not  have 
tortured  your  intellect  by  those  researches  into  Bradshaw." 

"Shrewdly  said,"  answered  Lionel,  laughing;  "but  I  wished 
for  your  sanction  of  my  crude  impressions."  , 

"  You  never  told  me  your  cousin's  name  was  Darrell :  not 
that  I  should  have  been  much  wiser  if  you  had;  but,  thunder 
and  lightning,  Lionel!  do  you  know  that  your  cousin  Darrell 
is  a  famous  man?" 

LIONEL.  —  "  Famous !  —  Nonsense.  I  suppose  he  was  a  good 
lawyer,  for  I  have  heard  my  mother  say,  with  a  sort  of  con- 
tempt, that  he  had  made  a  great  fortune  at  the  bar." 

VANCE.  — "But  he  was  in  Parliament." 

LIONEL.  —  "Was  he?     I  did  not  know." 

VANCE.  —  "  And  this  is  senatorial  fame !  You  never  heard 
your  schoolfellows  talk  of  Mr.  Darrell?  —  they  would  not  have 
known  his  name  if  you  had  boasted  of  it?  " 

LIONEL.  — "Certainly  not." 

VANCE.  —  "Would  your  schoolfellows  have  known  the 
names  of  Wilkie,  of  Landseer,  of  Turner,  Maclise?  I  speak 
of  painters." 

LIONEL.  —  "I  should  think  so,  indeed." 

VANCE  (soliloquizing). — "And  yet  Her  Serene  Sublimity 


74  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

ship,  Lady  Selina  Vipont,  says  to  me  with  divine  compassion, 
'Not  in  the  way  of  your  delightful  art  to  know  such  men  as 
Mr.  Darrell ! '  Oh,  as  if  I  did  not  see  through  it,  too,  when 
she  said,  a  propos  of  my  jean  cap  and  velveteen  jacket,  'What 
matters  how  you  dress?  Every  one  knows  who  you  are!' 
Would  she  have  said  that  to  the  earl  of  Dunder,  or  even  to 
Sir  Gregory  Stollhead?  No.  I  am  the  painter  Frank  Vance, 
—  nothing  more  nor  less;  and  if  I  stood  on  my  head  in  a 
check  shirt  and  a  sky-coloured  apron,  Lady  Selina  Vipont 
would  kindly  murmur,  'Only  Frank  Vance  the  painter:  what 
does  it  signify? '  Aha!  —  and  they  think  to  put  me  to  use, — 
puppets  and  lay  figures !  it  is  I  who  put  them  to  use !  Hark 
ye,  Lionel,  you  are  nearer  akin  to  these  fine  folks  than  I 
knew  of.  Promise  me  one  thing  •  you  may  become  of  their 
set,  by  right  of  your  famous  Mr.  Darrell ;  if  ever  you  hear  an 
artist,  musician,  scribbler,  no  matter  what,  ridiculed  as  a 
tuft-hunter, — seeking  the  great,  and  so  forth,  —  before  you 
join  in  the  laugh,  ask  some  great  man's  son,  with  a  pedigree 
that  dates  from  the  Ark,  'Are  you  not  a  toad-eater  too?  Do 
you  want  political  influence;  do  you  stand  contested  elec- 
tions ;  do  you  curry  and  fawn  upon  greasy  Sam  the  butcher 
and  grimy  Tom  the  blacksmith  for  a  vote?  Why?  useful  to 
your  career,  necessary  to  your  ambition?  Aha!  is  it  meaner 
to  curry  and  fawn  upon  white-handed  women  and  elegant  cox- 
combs? Tut,  tut!  useful  to  a  career,  necessary  to  ambition! ' ' 
Vance  paused,  out  of  breath.  The  spoiled  darling  of  the  cir- 
cles,—  he,  to  talk  such  republican  rubbish!  Certainly  he  must 
have  taken  his  two  guineas'  worth  out  of  those  light  wines. 
Nothing  so  treacherous!  they  inflame  the  brain  like  fire, 
while  melting  on  the  palate  like  ice.  All  inhabitants  of  light- 
wine  countries  are  quarrelsome  and  democratic. 

LIONEL  (astounded). — "No  one,  I  am  sure,  could  have 
meant  to  call  you  a  tuft-hunter;  of  course,  every  one  knows 
that  a  great  painter  —  " 

VANCE.  —  "  Dates  from  Michael  Angelo,  if  not  from  Zeuxis ! 
Common  individuals  trace  their  pedigree  from  their  own  fa- 
thers !  the  children  of  Art  from  Art's  founders !  " 

Oh,  Vance,  Vance,  you  are  certainly  drunk!     If  that  comes 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  75 

from  dining  with  fine  people  at  the  Star  and  Garter,  you  would 
be  a  happier  man  and  as  good  a  painter  if  your  toddy  were 
never  sipped  save  in  honeysuckle  arbours. 

"But,"  said  Lionel,  bewildered,  and  striving  to  turn  his 
friend's  thoughts,  "what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Mr.  Darrell?  " 

VANCE. —  "Mr.  Darrell  might  have  been  one  of  the  first 
men  in  the  kingdom.  Lady  Selina  Vipoiit  says  so,  and  she  is 
related,  I  believe,  to  every  member  in  the  Cabinet.  Mr.  Dar- 
rell can  push  you  in  life,  and  make  your  fortune,  without  any 
great  trouble  on  your  own  part.  Bless  your  stars,  and  rejoice 
that  you  are  not  a  painter !  " 

Lionel  flung  his  arm  round  the  artist's  broad  breast. 
"  Vance,  you  are  cruel ! "  It  was  his  turn  to  console  the 
painter,  as  the  painter  had  three  nights  before  (a  propos  of 
the  same  Mr.  Darrell)  consoled  him.  Vance  gradually  so- 
bered down,  and  the  young  men  walked  forth  in  the  moon- 
light. And  the  eternal  stars  had  the  same  kind  looks  for 
Vance  as  they  had  vouchsafed  to  Lionel. 

"When  do  you  start?"  asked  the  painter,  as  they  mounted 
the  stairs  to  bed. 

"To-morrow  evening.  I  miss  the  early  train,  for  I  must 
call  first  and  take  leave  of  Sophy.  I  hope  I  may  see  her 
again  in  after  life." 

"  And  I  hope,  for  your  sake,  that  if  so,  she  may  not  be  in 
the  same  coloured  print,  with  Lady  Selina  Vipont's  eyeglass 
upon  her ! " 

"What!  "'said  Lionel,  laughing;  "is  Lady  Seliua  Vipont 
so  formidably  rude?" 

"  Rude !  nobody  is  rude  in  that  delightful  set.  Lady  Selina 
Vipont  is  excruciatingly  —  civil." 


76  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 

BEING  devoted  exclusively  to  a  reflection,  not  inapposite  to  the  events  in 
this  history  nor  to  those  in  any  other  which  chronicles  the  life  of  men. 

THERE  is  one  warning  lesson  in  life  which  few  of  us  have 
not  received,  and  no  book  that  I  can  call  to  memory  has  noted 
down  with  an  adequate  emphasis.  It  is  this:  "Beware  of 
parting!  "  The  true  sadness  is  not  in  the  pain  of  the  parting, 
it  is  in  the  When  and  the  How  you  are  to  meet  again  with 
the  face  about  to  vanish  from  your  view!  From  the  passion- 
ate farewell  to  the  woman  who  has  your  heart  in  her  keeping, 
to  the  cordial  good-by  exchanged  with  pleasant  companions 
at  a  watering-place,  a  country-house,  or  the  close  of  a  festive 
day's  blithe  and  careless  excursion, — a  cord,  stronger  or 
weaker,  is  snapped  asunder  in  every  parting,  and  Time's 
busy  fingers  are  not  practised  in  re-splicing  broken  ties. 
Meet  again  you  may;  will  it  be  in  the  same  way?  —  with  the 
same  sympathies?  —  with  the  same  sentiments?  Will  the 
souls,  hurrying  on  in  diverse  paths,  unite  once  more,  as  if  the 
interval  had  been  a  dream?  Karely,  rarely!  Have  you  not, 
after  even  a  year,  even  a  month's  absence,  returned  to  the 
same  place,  found  the  same  groups  reassembled,  and  yet  sighed 
to  yourself,  "  But  where  is  the  charm  that  once  breathed  from 
the  spot,  and  once  smiled  from  the  faces?"  A  poet  has  said, 
"Eternity  itself  cannot  restore  the  loss  struck  from  the  min- 
ute." Are  you  happy  in  the  spot  on  which  you  tarry  with 
the  persons  whose  voices  are  now  melodious  to  your  ear?  — 
beware  of  parting;  or,  if  part  you  must,  say  not  in  insolent 
defiance  to  Time  and  Destiny,  "What  matters! — we  shall 
soon  meet  again." 

Alas,  and  alas !  when  we  think  of  the  lips  which  murmured, 
"Soon  meet  again,"  and  remember  how  in  heart,  soul,  and 
thought,  we  stood  forever  divided  the  one  from  the  other, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  77 

when,  once  more  face  to  face,  we  each  inly  exclaimed,  "Met 
again ! " 

The  air  that  we  breathe  makes  the  medium  through  which 
sound  is  conveyed;  be  the  instrument  unchanged,  be  the  force 
which  is  applied  to  it  the  same,  still  the  air  that  thou  seest 
not,  the  air  to  thy  ear  gives  the  music. 

King  a  bell  underneath  an  exhausted  receiver,  thou  wilt 
scarce  hear  the  sound;  give  the  bell  due  vibration  by  free  air 
in  warm  daylight,  or  sink  it  down  to  the  heart  of  the  ocean, 
where  the  air,  all  compressed,  fills  the  vessel  around  it,1  and 
the  chime,  heard  afar,  starts  thy  soul,  checks  thy  footstep, — 
unto  deep  calls  the  deep,  —  a  voice  from  the  ocean  is  borne  to 
thy  soul. 

Where  then  the  change,  when  thou  sayest,  "  Lo,  the  same 
metal, —  why  so  faint -heard  the  ringing?"  Ask  the  air  that 
thou  seest  not,  or  above  thee  in  sky,  or  below  thee  in  ocean. 
Art  thou  sure  that  the  bell,  so  faint-heard,  is  not  struck 
underneath  an  exhausted  receiver? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  wandering  inclinations  of  nomad  tribes  not  to  be  accounted  for  on  the 
principles  of  action  peculiar  to  civilized  men,  who  are  accustomed  to  live 
in  good  houses  and  able  to  pay  the  income  tax.  —  When  the  money  that 
once  belonged  to  a  man  civilized  vanishes  into  the  pockets  of  a  nomad, 
neither  lawful  art  nor  occult  science  can,  with  certainty,  discover  what  he 
will  do  with  it.  —  Mr.  Vance  narrowly  escapes  well-merited  punishment 
from  the  nails  of  the  British  Fair.  —  Lionel  Haughton,  in  the  temerity  of 
youth,  braves  the  dangers  of  a  British  Railway. 

THE  morning  was  dull  and  overcast,  rain  gathering  in  the 
air,  when  Vance  and  Lionel  walked  to  Waife's  lodging.  As 
Lionel  placed  his  hand  on  the  knocker  of  the  private  door, 

1  The  bell  in  a  sunk  diving-bell,  where  the  air  ia  compressed,  sounds  with 
increased  power.  Sound  travels  four  times  quicker  in  water  than  in  the 
upper  air. 


78  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  Cobbler,  at  his  place  by  the  window  in  the  stall  beside, 
glanced  towards  him,  and  shook  his  head. 

"No  use  knocking,  gentlemen.  Will  you  kindly  step  in? 
—  this  way." 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  lodgers  are  out?"  asked  Vance. 

"  Gone ! "  said  the  Cobbler,  thrusting  his  awl  with  great 
vehemence  through  the  leather  destined  to  the  repair  of  a 
ploughman's  boot. 

"Gone  —  for  good!"  cried  Lionel;  "you  cannot  mean  it. 
I  call  by  appointment." 

"Sorry,  sir,  for  your  trouble.  Stop  a  bit;  I  have  a  letter 
here  for  you."  The  Cobbler  dived  into  a  drawer,  and  from  a 
medley  of  nails  and  thongs  drew  forth  a  letter  addressed  to 
L.  Haughton,  Esq. 

"Is  this  from  Waife?  How  on  earth  did  he  know  my  sur- 
name? you  never  mentioned  it,  Vance?" 

"  Not  that  I  remember.  But  you  said  you  found  him  at  the 
inn,  and  they  knew  it  there.  It  is  on  the  brass-plate  of  your 
knapsack.  No  matter, —  what  does  he  say?"  and  Vance 
looked  over  his  friend's  shoulder  and  read:  — 

SIR,  —  I  most  respectfully  thank  you  for  your  condescending  kindness 
to  me  and  my  grandchild  ;  and  your  friend,  for  his  timely  and  generous 
aid.  You  will  pardon  me  that  the  necessity  which  knows  no  law 
obliges  me  to  leave  this  place  some  hours  before  the  time  of  your  pro- 
posed visit.  My  grandchild  says  you  intended  to  ask  her  sometimes  to 
write  to  you.  Excuse  me,  sir  •  on  reflection,  you  will  perceive  how 
different  your  ways  of  life  are  from  those  which  she  must  tread  with 
me.  You  see  before  you  a  man  who  —  but  I  forget ;  you  see  him  no 
more,  and  probably  never  will. 

Your  most  humble  and  most  obliged,  obedient  servant,       W.  W. 

VANCE.  —  "  Who  never  more  may  trouble  you  —  trouble  you ! 
Where  have  they  gone  ?  " 

COBBLER. — "Don't  know;  would  you  like  to  take  a  peep 
in  the  crystal  —  perhaps  you've  the  gift,  unbeknown?" 

VANCE. — "Not  1  —  bah!     Come  away,  Lionel." 

"Did  not  Sophy  even  leave  any  message  for  me?"  asked 
the  boy,  sorrowfully. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  79 

"  To  be  sure  she  did ;  I  forgot  —  no,  not  exactly  a  message, 
but  this  —  I  was  to  be  sure  to  give  it  to  you."  And  out  of 
his  miscellaneous  receptacle  the  Cobbler  extracted  a  little 
book.  Vance  looked  and  laughed, —  "The  Butterflies'  Ball 
and  the  Grasshoppers'  Feast." 

Lionel  did  not  share  the  laugh.  He  plucked  the  book  to 
himself,  and  read  on  the  fly-leaf,  in  a  child's  irregular  scrawl, 
blistered,  too,  with  the  unmistakable  trace  of  fallen  tears, 
these  words:  — 

Do  not  Scorn  it.  I  have  nothing  else  I  can  think  of  which  is  All 
Mine.  Miss  Jane  Burton  gave  it  me  for  being  Goode.  Grandfather 
says  you  are  too  high  for  us,  and  that  I  shall  not  see  you  More  ;  but  I 
shall  never  forget  how  kind  you  were,  never  —  never.  SOPHY. 

Said  the  Cobbler,  his  awl  upright  in  the  hand  which  rested 
on  his  knee,  "What  a  plague  did  the  'Stronomers  discover 
Herschel  for?  You  see,  sir,"  addressing  Vance,  "things  odd 
and  strange  all  come  along  o'  Herschel." 

"What!  — Sir  John?" 

"No,  the  star  he  poked  out.  He 's  a  awful  star  for  females ! 
hates  'em  like  poison !  I  suspect  he 's  been  worriting  hisself 
into  her  nativity,  for  I  got  out  from  her  the  year,  month,  and 
day  she  was  born,  hour  unbeknown,  but,  calkelating  by  noon, 
Herschel  was  dead  agin  her  in  the  Third  and  Ninth  House, 
—  Voyages,  Travels,  Letters,  News,  Church  Matters,  and  such 
like.  But  it  will  all  come  right  after  he  's  transited.  Her 
Jupiter  must  be  good.  But  I  only  hope,"  added  the  Cobbler, 
solemnly,  "that  they  won't  go  a-discovering  any  more  stars. 
The  world  did  a  deal  better  without  the  new  one,  and  they  do 
talk  of  a  Neptune  —  as  bad  as  Saturn ! " 

"  And  this  is  the  last  of  her ! "  said  Lionel,  sadly,  putting 
the  book  into  his  breast-pocket.  "  Heaven  shield  her  wher- 
ever she  goes!" 

VANCE.  —  "  Don't  you  think  Waife  and  the  poor  little  girl 
will  come  back  again?" 

COBBLER.  —  "  P'raps ;  I  know  he  was  looking  hard  into  the 
county  map  at  the  stationer's  over  the  way;  that  seems  as  if 
he  did  not  mean  to  go  very  far.  P'raps  he  may  come  back." 


80  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

VANCE.  —  "Did  he  take  all  his  goods  with  him?" 

COBBLER.  — "Barrin'  an  old  box, —  nothing  in  it,  I  expect, 
but  theatre  rubbish, — play-books,  paints,  an  old  wig,  and 
sich  like.  He  has  good  clothes, —  always  had;  and  so  has 
she,  but  they  don't  make  more  than  a  bundle." 

VANCE.  — "  But  surely  you  must  know  what  the  old  fel- 
low's project  is.  He  has  got  from  me  a  great  sum :  what  will 
he  do  with  it?" 

COBBLER.  —  "  Just  what  has  been  a-bothering  me.  What 
will  he  do  with  it?  I  cast  a  figure  to  know;  could  not  make 
it  out.  Strange  signs  in  Twelfth  House.  Enemies  and  Big 
Animals.  Well,  well,  he 's  a  marbellous  man,  and  if  he 
warn't  a  misbeliever  in  the  crystal,  I  should  say  he  was 
under  Herschel;  for  you  see,  sir"  (laying  hold  of  Vance's 
button,  as  he  saw  that  gentleman  turning  to  escape),  — "you 
see  Herschel,  though  he  be  a  sinister  chap  eno',  specially  in 
affairs  connected  with  t'  other  sex,  disposes  the  native  to  dive 
into  the  mysteries  of  natur'.  I  'm  a  Herschel  man,  out  and 
outer;  born  in  March,  and  —  " 

"As  mad  as  its  hares,"  muttered  Vance,  wrenching  his 
button  from  the  Cobbler's  grasp,  and  impatiently  striding 
off.  But  he  did  not  effect  his  escape  so  easily,  for,  close  at 
hand,  just  at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  a  female  group,  headed 
by  Merle's  gaunt  housekeeper,  had  been  silently  collecting 
from  the  moment  the  two  friends  had  paused  at  the  Cob- 
bler's door.  And  this  petticoated  divan  suddenly  closing 
round  the  painter,  one  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  another  by 
the  jacket,  and  a  third,  with  a  nose  upon  which  somebody 
had  sat  in  early  infancy,  whispered,  "Please,  sir,  take  my 
picter  fust." 

Vance  stared  aghast, —  "Your  picture,  you  drab!"  Here 
another  model  of  rustic  charms,  who  might  have  furnished 
an  ideal  for  the  fat  scullion  in  "Tristram  Shandy,"  bobbing 
a  courtesy  put  in  her  rival  claim. 

"  Sir,  if  you  don't  objex  to  coming  into  the  kitching  after 
the  family  has  gone  to  bed,  I  don't  care  if  I  lets  you  make  a 
minnytur  of  me  for  two  pounds." 

"  Miniature  of  you,  porpoise ! " 


WHAT   WILL  HE   DO   WITH   IT?  81 

"Polly,  sir,  not  Porpus, —  ax  pardon.  I  shall  clean  my- 
self, and  I  have  a  butyful  new  cap, —  Honey  tun,  and  —  " 

"Let  the  gentleman  go,  will  you?"  said  a  third;  "I  am 
surprised  at  ye,  Polly.  The  kitching,  unbeknown !  Sir,  I  'm 
in  the  nussery;  yes,  sir;  and  Missus  says  you  may  take  me 
any  time,  purvided  you  '11  take  the  babby,  in  the  back  par- 
lour; yes,  sir,  No.  5  in  the  High  Street.  Mrs.  Spratt,  — 
yes,  sir.  Babby  has  had  the  small-pox;  in  case  you're  a 
married  gentleman  with  a  family;  quite  safe  there;  yes,  sir." 

Vance  could  endure  no  more,  and,  forgetful  of  that  gal- 
lantry which  should  never  desert  the  male  sex,  burst  through 
the  phalanx  with  an  anathema,  blackening  alike  the  beauty 
and  the  virtue  of  those  on  whom  it  fell,  that  would  have  jus- 
tified a  cry  of  shame  from  every  manly  bosom,  and  which  at 
once  changed  into  shrill  wrath  the  supplicatory  tones  with 
which  he  had  been  hitherto  addressed.  Down  the  street  he 
hurried  and  down  the  street  followed  the  insulted  fair.  "  Hiss 
—  hiss  —  no  gentleman,  no  gentleman!  Aha  —  skulk  off  — 
do  —  low  blaggurd !  "  shrieked  Polly.  From  their  counters 
shop-folks  rushed  to  their  doors.  Stray  dogs,  excited  by  the 
clamour,  ran  wildly  after  the  fugitive  man,  yelping  "in 
madding  bray  " !  Vance,  fearing  to  be  clawed  by  the  females 
if  he  merely  walked,  sure  to  be  bitten  by  the  dogs  if  he  ran, 
ambled  on,  strove  to  look  composed,  and  carry  his  nose  high 
in  its  native  air,  till,  clearing  the  street,  he  saw  a  hedgerow 
to  the  right;  leaped  it  with  an  agility  which  no  stimulus  less 
preternatural  than  that  of  self-preservation  could  have  given 
to  his  limbs,  and  then  shot  off  like  an  arrow,  and  did  not 
stop,  till,  out  of  breath,  he  dropped  upon  the  bench  in  the 
sheltering  honeysuckle  arbour.  Here  he  was  still  fanning 
himself  with  his  cap,  and  muttering  unmentionable  exple- 
tives, when  he  was  joined  by  Lionel,  who  had  tarried  behind 
to  talk  more  about  Sophy  to  the  Cobbler,  and  who,  uncon- 
scious that  the  din  which  smote  his  ear  was  caused  by  his  ill- 
starred  friend,  had  been  enticed  to  go  upstairs  and  look  after 
Sophy  in  the  crystal,  —  vainly.  When  Vance  had  recited  his 
misadventures,  and  Lionel  had  sufficiently  condoled  with  him, 
it  became  time  for  the  latter  to  pay  his  share  of  the  bill,  pack 

VOL.  I.  — 0 


82  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

up  his  knapsack,  and  start  for  the  train.  Now,  the  station 
could  only  be  reached  by  penetrating  the  heart  of  the  village, 
and  Vance  swore  that  he  had  had  enough  of  that.  "  Peste  !  " 
said  he;  "I  should  pass  right  before  No.  5  in  the  High 
Street,  and  the  nuss  and  the  babby  will  be  there  on  the 
threshold,  like  Virgil's  picture  of  the  infernal  regions, — 

"' Infantumque  animse  flentcs  in  limine  primo.' 

We  will  take  leave  of  each  other  here.  I  shall  go  by  the 
boat  to  Chertsey  whenever  I  shall  have  sufficiently  recovered 
my  shaken  nerves.  There  are  one  or  two  picturesque  spots 
to  be  seen  in  that  neighbourhood.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  be 
in  town!  write  to  me  there,  and  tell  me  how  you  get  on. 
Shake  hands,  and  Heaven  speed  you.  But,  ah !  now  you  have 
paid  your  moiety  of  the  bill,  have  you  enough  left  for  the 
train?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  fare  is  but  a  few  shillings ;  but,  to  be  sure,  a 
fly  to  Fawley?  I  ought  not  to  go  on  foot"  (proudly);  "and, 
too,  supposing  he  affronts  me,  and  I  have  to  leave  his  house 
suddenly?  May  I  borrow  a  sovereign?  My  mother  will  call 
and  repay  it." 

VANCE  (magnificently).  — "There  it  is,  and  not  much  more 
left  in  my  purse, — that  cursed  Star  and  Garter!  and  those 
three  pounds ! " 

LIONEL  (sighing). — "Which  were  so  well  spent!  Before 
you  sell  that  picture,  do  let  me  make  a  copy." 

VANCE.  —  "  Better  take  a  model  of  your  own.  Village  full 
of  them;  you  could  bargain  with  a  porpoise  for  half  the 
money  which  I  was  duped  into  squandering  away  on  a  chit ! 
But  don't  look  so  grave ;  you  may  copy  me  if  you  can !  " 

"Time  to  start,  and  must  walk  brisk,  sir,"  said  the  jolly 
landlord,  looking  in. 

"Good-by,  good-by." 

And  so  departed  Lionel  Haughton  upon  an  emprise  as  mo- 
mentous to  that  youth-errant  as  Perilous  Bridge  or  Dragon's 
Cave  could  have  been  to  knight-errant  of  old. 

"Before  we  decide  on  having  done  with  each  other,  a  short 
visit,"  —  so  ran  the  challenge  from  him  who  had  everything 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  83 

to  give  unto  him  who  had  everything  to  gain.  And  how  did 
Lionel  Haughton,  the  ambitious  and  aspiring,  contemplate 
the  venture  in  which  success  would  admit  him  within  the 
gates  of  the  golden  Carduel  an  equal  in  the  lists  with  the 
sons  of  paladins,  or  throw  him  back  to  the  arms  of  the  widow 
who  let  a  first  floor  in  the  back  streets  of  Pimlico?  Truth  to 
say,  as  he  strode  musingly  towards  the  station  for  starting, 
where  the  smoke-cloud  now  curled  from  the  wheel-track  of 
iron,  truth  to  say,  the  anxious  doubt  which  disturbed  him 
was  not  that  which  his  friends  might  have  felt  on  his  behalf. 
In  words,  it  would  have  shaped  itself  thus, —  "Where  is  that 
poor  little  Sophy!  and  what  will  become  of  her  —  what?" 
But  when,  launched  on  the  journey,  hurried  on  to  its  goal, 
the  thought  of  the  ordeal  before  him  forced  itself  on  his  mind, 
he  muttered  inly  to  himself,  "Done  with  each  other;  let  it 
be  as  he  pleases,  so  that  I  do  not  fawn  on  his  pleasure.  Bet- 
ter a  million  times  enter  life  as  a  penniless  gentleman,  who 
must  work  his  way  up  like  a  man,  than  as  one  who  creeps  on 
his  knees  into  fortune,  shaming  birthright  of  gentleman  or 
soiling  honour  of  man."  Therefore  taking  into  account  the 
poor  cousin's  vigilant  pride  on  the  qui  vive  for  offence,  and 
the  rich  cousin's  temper  (as  judged  by  his  letters)  rude  enough 
to  resent  it,  we  must  own  that  if  Lionel  Haughton  has  at  this 
moment  what  is  commonly  called  "a  chance,"  the  question 
as  yet  is  not,  What  is  that  chance?  but,  What  will  he  do  with 
it  ?  And  as  the  reader  advances  in  this  history,  he  will  ac- 
knowledge that  there  are  few  questions  in  this  world  so  fre- 
quently agitated,  to  which  the  solution  is  more  important  to 
each  puzzled  mortal  than  that  upon  which  starts  every  sage's 
discovery,  every  novelist's  plot,  —  that  which  applies  to 
MAN'S  LIFE,  from  its  first  sleep  in  the  cradle,  "WHAT  WILL 

HE   DO   WITH    IT?" 


BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PBIMITITE  character  of  the  country  in  certain  districts  of  Great  Britain.  — 
Connection  between  the  features  of  surrounding  scenery  and  the  mental 
and  moral  inclinations  of  man,  after  the  fashion  of  all  sound  ethnological 
historians.  —  A  charioteer,  to  whom  an  experience  of  British  laws  suggests 
an  ingenious  mode  of  arresting  the  progress  of  Roman  Papacy,  carries 
Lionel  Haughton  and  his  fortunes  to  a  place  which  allows  of  description 
and  invites  repose. 

IN  safety,  but  with  naught  else  rare  enough,  in  a  railway 
train,  to  deserve  commemoration,  Lionel  reached  the  station 
to  which  he  was  bound.  He  there  inquired  the  distance  to 
Fawley  Manor  House ;  it  was  five  miles.  He  ordered  a  fly, 
and  was  soon  wheeled  briskly  along  a  rough  parish  road, 
through  a  country  strongly  contrasting  the  gay  river  scenery 
he  had  so  lately  quitted, —  quite  as  English,  but  rather  the 
England  of  a  former  race  than  that  which  spreads  round  our 
own  generation  like  one  vast  suburb  of  garden-ground  and 
villas.  Here,  nor  village  nor  spire,  nor  porter's  lodge  came 
in  sight.  Rare  even  were  the  cornfields ;  wide  spaces  of  un- 
enclosed common  opened,  solitary  and  primitive,  on  the  road, 
bordered  by  large  woods,  chiefly  of  beech,  closing  the  horizon 
with  ridges  of  undulating  green.  In  such  an  England, 
Knights  Templars  might  have  wended  their  way  to  scattered 
monasteries,  or  fugitive  partisans  in  the  bloody  Wars  of  the 
Roses  have  found  shelter  under  leafy  coverts. 

The  scene  had  its  romance,  its  beauty  —  half  savage,  half 
gentle  —  leading  perforce  the  mind  of  any  cultivated  and 
imaginative  gazer  far  back  from  the  present  day,  waking  up 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  85 

long-forgotten  passages  from  old  poets.  The  stillness  of  such 
wastes  of  sward,  such  deeps  of  woodland,  induced  the  nurture 
of  revery,  gravely  soft  and  lulling.  There,  Ambition  might 
give  rest  to  the  wheel  of  Ixion,  Avarice  to  the  sieve  of  the 
Danaids ;  there,  disappointed  Love  might  muse  on  the  brevity 
of  all  human  passions,  and  count  over  the  tortured  hearts 
that  have  found  peace  in  holy  meditation,  or  are  now  stilled 
under  grassy  knolls.  See  where,  at  the  crossing  of  three 
roads  upon  the  waste,  the  landscape  suddenly  unfolds, — 
an  upland  in  the  distance,  and  on  the  upland  a  building, 
the  first  sign  of  social  man.  What  is  the  building?  only  a 
silenced  windmill,  the  sails  dark  and  sharp  against ^the  dull 
leaden  sky. 

Lionel  touched  the  driver, —  "Are  we  yet  on  Mr.  Darrell's 
property?"  Of  the  extent  of  that  property  he  had  involun- 
tarily conceived  a  vast  idea. 

"Lord,  sir,  no;  we  be  two  miles  from  Squire  Darrell's. 
He  han't  much  property  to  speak  of  hereabouts.  But  he 
bought  a  good  bit  o'  land,  too,  some  years  ago,  ten  or  twelve 
mile  t'  other  side  o'  the  county.  First  time  you  are  going  to 
Fawley,  sir?" 

"  Fes." 

"  Ah !  I  don't  mind  seeing  you  afore ;  and  I  should  have 
known  you  if  I  had,  for  it  is  seldom  indeed  I  have  a  fare  to 
Fawley  old  Manor  House.  It  must  be,  I  take  it,  four  or  five 
years  ago  sin'  I  wor  there  with  a  gent,  and  he  went  away 
while  I  wor  feeding  the  horse ;  did  me  out  o'  my  back  fare. 
What  bisness  had  he  to  walk  when  he  came  in  my  fly?  — 
Shabby." 

"Mr.  Darrell  lives  very  retired,  then?  sees  few  persons?" 

"S'pose  so.  I  never  see'd  him  as  I  knows  on;  see'd  two  o' 
his  hosses  though, —  rare  good  uns;  "  and  the  driver  whipped 
on  his  own  horse,  took  to  whistling,  and  Lionel  asked  no 
more. 

At  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  a  carriage  gate,  receding 
from  the  road,  and  deeply  shadowed  by  venerable  trees, — no 
lodge.  The  driver,  dismounting,  opened  the  gate. 

"Is  this  the  place?" 


86  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

The  driver  nodded  assent,  remounted,  and  drove  on  rapidly 
through  what  might  by  courtesy  be  called  a  park.  The  en- 
closure was  indeed  little  beyond  that  of  a  good-sized  paddock; 
its  boundaries  were  visible  on  every  side:  but  swelling  up- 
lands covered  with  massy  foliage  sloped  down  to  its  wild, 
irregular  turf  soil, — soil  poor  for  pasturage,  but  pleasant  to 
the  eye;  with  dell  and  dingle,  bosks  of  fantastic  pollards; 
dotted  oaks  of  vast  growth;  here  and  there  a  weird  hollow 
thorn-tree;  patches  of  fern  and  gorse.  Hoarse  and  loud 
cawed  the  rooks ;  and  deep,  deep  as  from  the  innermost  core 
of  the  lovely  woodlands  came  the  mellow  note  of  the  cuckoo. 
A  few  moments  more  a  wind  of  the  road  brought  the  house  in 
sight.  At  its  rear  lay  a  piece  of  water,  scarcely  large  enough 
to  be  styled  a  lake ;  too  winding  in  its  shaggy  banks,  its  ends 
too  concealed  by  tree  and  islet,  to  be  called  by  the  dull  name 
of  pond.  Such  as  it  was  it  arrested  the  eye  before  the  gaze 
turned  towards  the  house:  it  had  an  air  of  tranquillity  so 
sequestered,  so  solemn.  A  lively  man  of  the  world  would 
have  been  seized  with  spleen  at  the  first  glimpse  of  it;  but 
he  who  had  known  some  great  grief,  some  anxious  care,  would 
have  drunk  the  calm  into  his  weary  soul  like  an  anodyne. 
The  house, —  small,  low,  ancient,  about  the  date  of  Edward 
VI.,  before  the  statelier  architecture  of  Elizabeth.  Few 
houses  in  England  so  old,  indeed,  as  Fawley  Manor  House. 
A  vast  weight  of  roof,  with  high  gables;  windows  on  the 
upper  story  projecting  far  over  the  lower  part;  a  covered 
porch  with  a  coat  of  half -obliterated  arms  deep  panelled  over 
the  oak  door.  Nothing  grand,  yet  all  how  venerable!  But 
what  is  this?  Close  beside  the  old,  quiet,  unassuming  Manor 
House  rises  the  skeleton  of  a  superb  and  costly  pile, — a  pal- 
ace uncompleted,  and  the  work  evidently  suspended, —  per- 
haps long  since,  perhaps  now  forever.  No  busy  workmen 
nor  animated  scaffolding.  The  perforated  battlements  roofed 
over  with  visible  haste, — here  with  slate,  there  with  tile; 
the  Elizabethan  mullion  casements  unglazed;  some  roughly 
boarded  across, —  some  with  staring  forlorn  apertures,  that 
showed  floorless  chambers,  for  winds  to  whistle  through  and 
rats  to  tenant.  Weeds  and  long  grass  were  growing  over 


WHAT  WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  87 

blocks  of  stone  that  lay  at  hand.  A  wallflower  had  forced 
itself  into  root  on  the  sill  of  a  giant  oriel.  The  effect  was 
startling.  A  fabric  which  he  who  conceived  it  must  have 
founded  for  posterity, — so  solid  its  masonry,  so  thick  its 
walls, — and  thus  abruptly  left  to  moulder;  a  palace  con- 
structed for  the  reception  of  crowding  guests,  the  pomp  of 
stately  revels,  abandoned  to  owl  and  bat.  And  the  homely 
old  house  beside  it,  which  that  lordly  hall  was  doubtless  de- 
signed to  replace,  looking  so  safe  and  tranquil  at  the  baffled 
presumption  of  its  spectral  neighbour. 

The  driver  had  rung  the  bell,  and  now  turning  back  to  the 
chaise  met  Lionel's  inquiring  eye,  and  said,  "Yes;  Squire 
Darrell  began  to  build  that  —  many  years  ago  —  when  I  was  a 
boy.  I  heerd  say  it  was  to  be  the  show-house  of  the  whole 
county.  Been  stopped  these  ten  or  a  dozen  years." 

"Why?  — do  you  know?" 

"No  one  knows.  Squire  was  a  laryer,  I  b'leve:  perhaps 
he  put  it  into  Chancery.  My  wife's  grandfather  was  put  into 
Chancery  jist  as  he  was  growing  up,  and  never  grew  after- 
wards: never  got  out  o'  it;  nout  ever  does.  There's  our 
churchwarden  comes  to  me  with  a  petition  to  sign  agin  the 
Pope.  Says  I,  'That  old  Pope  is  always  in  trouble:  what's 
he  bin  do  in'  now?'  Says  he,  'Spreading!  He's  a-got  into 
Parlyment,  and  he  's  now  got  a  colledge,  and  we  pays  for  it. 
I  doesn't  know  how  to  stop  him.'  Says  I,  'Put  the  Pope 
into  Chancery,  along  with  wife's  grandfather,  and  he  '11  never 
spread  agin."! 

The  driver  had  thus  just  disposed  of  the  Papacy,  when  an 
elderly  servant  out  of  livery  opened  the  door.  Lionel  sprang 
from  the  chaise,  and  paused  in  some  confusion :  for  then,  for 
the  first  time,  there  darted  across  him  the  idea  that  he  had 
never  written  to  announce  his  acceptance  of  Mr.  Darrell's  in- 
vitation; that  he  ought  to  have  done  so;  that  he  might  not  be 
expected.  Meanwhile  the  servant  surveyed  him  with  some 
surprise.  "Mr.  Darrell?"  hesitated  Lionel,  inquiringly. 

"Not  at  home,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  as  if  Lionel's  busi- 
ness was  over,  and  he  had  only  to  re-enter  his  chaise.  The 
boy  was  naturally  rather  bold  than  shy,  and  he  said,  with  a 


88  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

certain  assured  air,  "  My  name  is  Haughton.     I  come  here  on 
Mr.  Darrell's  invitation." 

The  servant's  face  changed  in  a  moment ;  he  bowed  respect- 
fully. "I  beg  pardon,  sir.  I  will  look  for  my  master;  he  is 
somewhere  on  the  grounds."  The  servant  then  approached 
the  fly,  took  out  the  knapsack,  and,  observing  Lionel  had  his 
purse  in  his  hand,  said,  "  Allow  me  to  save  you  that  trouble, 
sir.  Driver,  round  to  the  stable-yard."  Stepping  back  into 
the  house,  the  servant  threw  open  a  door  to  the  left,  on  en- 
trance, and  advanced  a  chair.  "  If  you  will  wait  here  a  mo- 
ment, sir,  I  will  seek  for  my  master." 


CHAPTER  II. 
GOT  BARBELL  —  and  Stilled  Life. 

THE  room  in  which  Lionel  now  found  himself  was  singu- 
larly quaint.  An  antiquarian  or  architect  would  have  discov- 
ered at  a  glance  that  at  some  period  it  had  formed  part  of  the 
entrance-hall;  and  when,  in  Elizabeth's  or  James  the  First's 
day,  the  refinement  in  manners  began  to  penetrate  from  baro- 
nial mansions  to  the  homes  of  the  gentry,  and  the  entrance- 
hall  ceased  to  be  the  common  refectory  of  the  owner  and  his 
dependants,  this  apartment  had  been  screened  off  by  perfor- 
ated panels,  which  for  the  sake  of  warmth  and  comfort  had 
been  filled  up  into  solid  wainscot  by  a  succeeding  generation. 
Thus  one  side  of  the  room  was  richly  carved  with  geometri- 
cal designs  and  arabesque  pilasters,  while  the  other  three 
sides  were  in  small  simple  panels,  with  a  deep  fantastic  frieze 
in  plaster,  depicting  a  deer-chase  in  relief  and  running  be- 
tween woodwork  and  ceiling.  The  ceiling  itself  was  relieved 
by  long  pendants  without  any  apparent  meaning,  and  by  the 
crest  of  the  Darrells, — a  heron,  wreathed  round  with  the 
family  motto,  "Ardua  petit  Ardea."  It  was  a  dining-room, 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  89 

as  was  shown  by  the  character  of  the  furniture.  But  there 
was  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  present  owner,  and  there 
had  clearly  been  none  on  the  part  of  his  predecessor,  to  suit 
the  furniture  to  the  room.  The  furniture,  indeed,  was  of  the 
heavy,  graceless  taste  of  George  the  First, — cumbrous  chairs 
in  walnut-tree,  with  a  worm-eaten  mosaic  of  the  heron  on 
their  homely  backs,  and  a  faded  blue  worsted  on  their  seats ; 
a  marvellously  ugly  sideboard  to  match,  and  on  it  a  couple 
of  black  shagreen  cases,  the  lids  of  which  were  flung  open, 
and  discovered  the  pistol-shaped  handles  of  silver  knives. 
The  mantelpiece  reached  to  the  ceiling,  in  panelled  compart- 
ments, with  heraldic  shields,  and  supported  by  rude  stone 
Caryatides.  On  the  walls  were  several  pictures, — family 
portraits,  for  the  names  were  inscribed  on  the  frames.  They 
varied  in  date  from  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  that  of  George 
I.  A  strong  family  likeness  pervaded  them  all,  — high  feat- 
ures, dark  hair,  grave  aspects, —  save  indeed  one,  a  Sir  Ralph 
Haughton  Darrell,  in  a  dress  that  spoke  him  of  the  holiday 
date  of  Charles  II., —  all  knots,  lace,  and  ribbons;  evidently 
the  beau  of  the  race ;  and  he  had  blue  eyes,  a  blonde  peruke, 
a  careless  profligate  smile,  and  looked  altogether  as  devil-me- 
care,  rakehelly,  handsome,  good-for-nought,  as  ever  swore  at 
a  drawer,  beat  a  watchman,  charmed  a  lady,  terrified  a  hus- 
band, and  hummed  a  song  as  he  pinked  his  man. 

Lionel  was  still  gazing  upon  the  effigies  of  this  airy  cava- 
lier when  the  door  behind  him  opened  very  noiselessly,  and  a 
man  of  imposing  presence  stood  on  the  threshold, —  stood  so 
still,  and  the  carved  mouldings  of  the  doorway  so  shadowed, 
and  as  it  were  cased  round  his  figure,  that  Lionel,  on  turning 
quickly,  might  have  mistaken  him  for  a  portrait  brought  into 
bold  relief  from  its  frame  by  a  sudden  fall  of  light.  We  hear 
it,  indeed,  familiarly  said  that  su«h  a  one  is  like  an  old  pic- 
ture. Never  could  it  be  more  appositely  said  than  of  the  face 
on  which  the  young  visitor  gazed,  much  startled  and  some- 
what awed.  Not  such  as  inferior  limners  had  painted  in  the 
portraits  there,  though  it  had  something  in  common  with 
those  family  lineaments,  but  such  as  might  have  looked  tran- 
quil power  out  of  the  canvas  of  Titian. 


90  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

The  man  stepped  forward,  and  the  illusion  passed.  "I 
thank  you,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "for  taking  me  at 
my  word,  and  answering  me  thus  in  person."  He  paused 
a  moment,  surveying  Lionel's  countenance  with  a  keen 
but  not  unkindly  eye,  and  added  softly,  "Very  like  your 
father." 

At  these  words  Lionel  involuntarily  pressed  the  hand  which 
he  had  taken.  That  hand  did  not  return  the  pressure.  It 
lay  an  instant  in  Lionel's  warm  clasp  —  not  repelling,  not 
responding  —  and  was  then  very  gently  withdrawn. 

"Did  you  come  from  London?" 

"No,  sir;  I  found  your  letter  yesterday  at  Hampton  Court. 
I  had  been  staying  some  days  in  that  neighbourhood.  I  came 
on  this  morning:  I  was  afraid  too  unceremoniously;  your 
kind  welcome  reassures  me  there." 

The  words  were  well  chosen  and  frankly  said.  Probably 
they  pleased  the  host,  for  the  expression  of  his  countenance 
was,  on  the  whole,  propitious;  but  he  merely  inclined  his 
head  with  a  kind  of  lofty  indifference,  then,  glancing  at  his 
watch,  he  rang  the  bell.  The  servant  entered  promptly. 
"Let  dinner  be  served  within  an  hour." 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  Lionel,  "do  not  change  your  hours  on  my 
account." 

Mr.  Darrell's  brow  slightly  contracted.  Lionel's  tact  was 
in  fault  there;  but  the  great  man  answered  quietly,  "All 
hours  are  the  same  to  me ;  and  it  were  strange  if  a  host  could 
be  deranged  by  consideration  to  his  guest, — on  the  first  day 
too.  Are  you  tired?  Would  you  like  to  go  to  your  room,  or 
look  out  for  half  an  hour?  The  sky  is  clearing." 

"I  should  so  like  to  look  out,  sir." 

"This  way  then." 

Mr.  Darrell,  crossing  the  hall,  threw  open  a  door  opposite 
to  that  by  which  Lionel  entered,  and  the  lake  (we  will  so  call 
it)  lay  before  them, —  separated  from  the  house  only  by  a 
shelving  gradual  declivity,  on  which  were  a  few  beds  of  flow- 
ers, —  not  the  most  in  vogue  nowadays,  and  disposed  in 
rambling  old-fashioned  parterres.  At  one  angle,  a  quaint 
and  dilapidated  sun-dial ;  at  the  other,  a  long  bowling-alley, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  91 

terminated  by  one  of  those  summer-houses  which  the  Dutch 
taste,  following  the  Revolution  of  1688,  brought  into  fashion. 
Mr.  Darrell  passed  down  this  alley  (no  bowls  there  now), 
and  observing  that  Lionel  looked  curiously  towards  the  sum- 
mer-house, of  which  the  doors  stood  open,  entered  it.  A 
lofty  room  with  coved  ceiling,  painted  with  Roman  trophies 
of  helms  and  fasces,  alternated  with  crossed  fifes  and  fiddles, 
painted  also. 

"Amsterdam  manners,"  said  Mr.  Darrell,  slightly  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "  Here  a  former  race  heard  music,  sang 
glees,  and  smoked  from  clay  pipes.  That  age  soon  passed, 
unsuited  to  English  energies,  which  are  not  to  be  united  with 
Holland  phlegm!  But  the  view  from  the  window  —  look  out 
there.  I  wonder  whether  men  in  wigs  and  women  in  hoops 
enjoyed  that.  It  is  a  mercy  they  did  not  clip  those  banks 
into  a  straight  canal ! " 

The  view  was  indeed  lovely, — the  water  looked  so  blue  and 
so  large  and  so  limpid,  woods  and  curving  banks  reflected 
deep  on  its  peaceful  bosom. 

"  How  Vance  would  enjoy  this ! "  cried  Lionel.  "  It  would 
come  into  a  picture  even  better  than  the  Thames." 

"Vance?  who  is  Vance?" 

"The  artist, —  a  great  friend  of  mine.  Surely,  sir,  you 
have  heard  of  him  or  seen  his  pictures!" 

"  Himself  and  his  pictures  are  since  my  time.  Days  tread 
down  days  for  the  recluse,  and  he  forgets  that  celebrities  rise 
with  their  suns,  to  wane  with  their  moons, — 

"  "Traditur  die8  die, 
Novseque  pergunt  interire  lun«e.' " 

"All  suns  do  not  set;  all  moons  do  not  wane!"  cried  Li- 
onel,  with  blunt  enthusiasm.  "When  Horace  speaks  else- 
where of  the  Julian  star,  he  compares  it  to  a  moon  —  'inter 
ignes  minores  ' —  and  surely  Fame  is  not  among  the  orbs  which 
'pergunt  interire,' — hasten  on  to  perish!  " 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  retain  your  recollections  of 
Horace,"  said  Mr.  Darrell,  frigidly,  and  without  continuing 


92  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  allusion  to  celebrities ;  "  the  most  charming  of  all  poets 
to  a  man  of  my  years,  and  "  (he  very  dryly  added)  "  the  most 
useful  for  popular  quotation  |to  men  at  any  age." 

Then  sauntering  forth  carelessly,  he  descended  the  sloping 
turf,  came  to  the  water-side,  and  threw  himself  at  length  on 
the  grass:  the  wild  thyme  which  he  crushed  sent  up  its 
bruised  fragrance.  There,  resting  his  face  on  his  hand,  Dar- 
rell  gazed  along  the  water  in  abstracted  silence.  Lionel  felt 
that  he  was  forgotten;  but  he  was  not  hurt.  By  this  time  a 
strong  and  admiring  interest  for  his  cousin  had  sprung  up 
within  his  breast :  he  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  explain 
why.  But  whosoever  at  that  moment  could  have  seen  Guy 
Darrell's  musing  countenance,  or  whosoever,  a  few  minutes 
before,  could  have  heard  the  very  sound  of  his  voice, — 
sweetly,  clearly  full;  each  slow  enunciation  unaffectedly, 
mellowly  distinct, —  making  musical  the  homeliest;  roughest 
word,  would  have  understood  and  shared  the  interest  which 
Lionel  could  not  explain.  There  are  living  human  faces, 
which,  independently  of  mere  physical  beauty,  charm  and 
enthrall  us  more  than  the  most  perfect  lineaments  which 
Greek  sculptor  ever  lent  to  a  marble  face ;  there  are  key-notes 
in  the  thrilling  human  voice,  simply  uttered,  which  can  haunt 
the  heart,  rouse  the  passions,  lull  rampant  multitudes,  shake 
into  dust  the  thrones  of  guarded  kings,  and  effect  more  won- 
ders than  ever  yet  have  been  wrought  by  the  most  artful 
chorus  or  the  deftest  quill. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  swans  from  the  farther  end  of  the 
water  came  sailing  swiftly  towards  the  bank  on  which  Darrell 
reclined.  He  had  evidently  made  friends  with  them,  and 
they  rested  their  white  breasts  close  on  the  margin,  seeking 
to  claim  his  notice  with  a  low  hissing  salutation,  which,  it  is 
to  be  hoped,  they  changed  for  something  less  sibilant  in  that 
famous  song  with  which  they  depart  this  life. 

Darrell  looked  up.  "They  come  to  be  fed,"  said  he, 
"  smooth  emblems  of  the  great  social  union.  Affection  is  the 
offspring  of  utility.  I  am  useful  to  them:  they  love  me." 
He  rose,  uncovered,  and  bowed  to  the  birds  in  mock  courtesy : 
"Friends,  I  have  no  bread  to  give  you." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  93 

LIONEL.  — "  Let  me  run  in  for  some.  I  would  be  useful 
too." 

MR.  DARRELL.  —  "Rival!  —  useful  to  my  swans?" 

LIONEL  (tenderly).  —  "Or  to  you,  sir." 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  said  too  much,  and  without  waiting  for 
permission,  ran  indoors  to  find  some  one  whom  he  could  ask 
for  the  bread. 

"Sonless,  childless,  hopeless,  objectless!"  said  Darrell, 
murmuringly  to  himself,  and  sank  again  into  revery. 

By  the  time  Lionel  returned  with  the  bread,  another  petted 
friend  had  joined  the  master.  A  tame  doe  had  caught  sight 
of  him  from  her  covert  far  away,  came  in  light  bounds  to  his 
side,  and  was  pushing  her  delicate  nostril  into  his  drooping 
hand.  At  the  sound  of  Lionel's  hurried  step,  she  took  flight, 
trotted  off  a  few  paces,  then  turned,  looking. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  deer  here." 

"Deer!  —  in  this  little  paddock!  —  of  course  not;  only  that 
doe.  Fairthorn  introduced  her  here.  By  the  by, "  continued 
Darrell,  who  was  now  throwing  the  bread  to  the  swans,  and 
had  resumed  his  careless,  unmeditative  manner,  "you  were 
not  aware  that  I  have  a  brother  hermit, — a  companion  be- 
sides the  swans  and  the  doe.  Dick  Fairthorn  is  a  year  or 
two  younger  than  myself,  the  son  of  my  father's  bailiff.  He 
was  the  cleverest  boy  at  his  grammar-school.  Unluckily  he 
took  to  the  flute,  and  unfitted  himself  for  the  present  century. 
He  condescends,  however,  to  act  as  my  secretary, — a  fair 
classical  scholar,  plays  chess,  is  useful  to  me, —  I  am  useful 
to  him.  We  have  an  affection  for  each  other.  I  never  for- 
give any  one  who  laughs  at  him.  The  half-hour  bell,  and 
you  will  meet  him  at  dinner.  Shall  we  come  in  and 
dress?  " 

They  entered  the  house ;  the  same  man-servant  was  in  at- 
tendance in  the  hall.  "Show  Mr.  Haughton  to  his  room." 
Darrell  inclined  his  head  —  I  use  that  phrase,  for  the  gesture 
was  neither  bow  nor  nod  —  turned  down  a  narrow  passage  and 
disappeared. 

Led  up  an  uneven  staircase  of  oak,  black  as  ebony,  with 
huge  balustrades,  and  newel-posts  supporting  clumsy  balls, 


94  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Lionel  was  conducted  to  a  small  chamber,  modernized  a  cen- 
tury ago  by  a  faded  Chinese  paper,  and  a  mahogany  bedstead, 
which  took  up  three-fourths  of  the  space,  and  was  crested 
with  dingy  plumes,  that  gave  it  the  cheerful  look  of  a  hearse ; 
and  there  the  attendant  said,  "Have  you  the  key  of  your 
knapsack,  sir?  shall  I  put  out  your  things  to  dress?"  Dress! 
Then  for  the  first  time  the  boy  remembered  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  no  evening  dress, —  nay,  evening  dress, 
properly  so  called,  he  possessed  not  at  all  in  any  corner  of 
the  world.  It  had  never  yet  entered  into  his  modes  of  exist- 
ence. Call  to  mind  when  you  were  a  boy  of  seventeen,  "  be- 
twixt two  ages  hovering  like  a  star,"  and  imagine  Lionel's 
sensations.  He  felt  his  cheek  burn  as  if  he  had  been  detected 
in  a  crime.  "I  have  no  dress  things,"  he  said  piteously; 
"only  a  change  of  linen,  and  this,"  glancing  at  the  summer 
jacket.  The  servant  was  evidently  a  most  gentleman-like 
man:  his  native  sphere  that  of  groom  of  the  chambers.  "I 
will  mention  it  to  Mr.  Darrell;  and  if  you  will  favour  me 
with  your  address  in  London,  I  will  send  to  telegraph  for 
what  you  want  against  to-morrow." 

"Many  thanks,"  answered  Lionel,  recovering  his  presence 
of  mind;  "I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Darrell  myself." 

"There  is  the  hot  water,  sir;  that  is  the  bell.  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  placed  at  your  commands."  The  door  closed,  and 
Lionel  unlocked  his  knapsack;  other  trousers,  other  waist- 
coat had  he, — those  worn  at  the  fair,  and  once  white.-  Alas! 
they  had  not  since  then  passed  to  the  care  of  the  laundress. 
Other  shoes, — double-soled  for  walking.  There  was  no  help 
for  it  but  to  appear  at  dinner,  attired  as  he  had  been  before, 
in  his  light  pedestrian  jacket,  morning  waistcoat  flowered  with 
sprigs,  and  a  fawn-coloured  nether  man.  Could  it  signify 
much,  —  only  two  men?  Could  the  grave  Mr.  Darrell  regard 
such  trifles?  —  Yes,  if  they  intimated  want  of  due  respect. 

"  Durum !  sed  fit  levins  Patientia 
Quicquid  corrigere  eat  nefas." 

On  descending  the  stairs,  the  same  high-bred  domestic  was 
in  waiting  to  show  him  into  the  library.  Mr.  Darrell  was 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  95 

there  already,  in  the  simple  but  punctilious  costume  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  retains  in  seclusion  the  habits  customary  in  the 
world.  At  the  first  glance  Lionel  thought  he  saw  a  slight 
cloud  of  displeasure  on  his  host's  brow.  He  went  up  to  Mr. 
Darrell  ingenuously,  and  apologized  for  the  deficiencies  of  his 
itinerant  wardrobe.  "Say  the  truth,"  said  his  host;  "you 
thought  you  were  coming  to  an  old  churl,  with  whom  cere- 
mony was  misplaced." 

"  Indeed  no !  "  exclaimed  Lionel.  "  But  —  but  I  have  so 
lately  left  school." 

"Your  mother  might  have  thought  for  you." 

"I  did  not  stay  to  consult  her,  indeed,  sir;  I  hope  you  are 
not  offended." 

"  No,  but  let  me  not  offend  you  if  I  take  advantage  of  my 
years  and  our  relationship  to  remark  that  a  young  man  should 
be  careful  not  to  let  himself  down  below  the  standard  of  his 
own  rank.  If  a  king  could  bear  to  hear  that  he  was  only  a 
ceremonial,  a  private  gentleman  may  remember  that  there  is 
but  a  ceremonial  between  himself  and  —  his  hatter ! " 

Lionel  felt  the  colour  mount  his  brow;  but  Darrell  press- 
ing the  distasteful  theme  no  further,  and  seemingly  forget- 
ting its  purport,  turned  his  remarks  carelessly  towards  the 
weather.  "  It  will  be  fair  to-morrow :  there  is  no  mist  on  the 
hill  yonder.  Since  you  have  a  painter  for  a  friend,  perhaps 
you  yourself  are  a  draughtsman.  There  are  some  landscape 
effects  here  which  Fairthorn  shall  point  out  to  you." 

"I  fear,  Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Lionel,  looking  down,  "that 
to-morrow  I  must  leave  you." 

"So  soon?    Well,  I  suppose  the  place  must  be  very  dull." 

"Not  that  —  not  that;  but  I  have  offended  you,  and  I  would 
not  repeat  the  offence.  I  have  not  the  'ceremonial '  necessary 
to  mark  me  as  a  gentleman, —  either  here  or  at  home." 

"Sol  Bold  frankness  and  ready  wit  command  ceremo- 
nials," returned  Darrell,  and  for  the  first  time  his  lip  wore  a 
smile.  "Let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  Fairthorn,"  as  the  door, 
opening,  showed  a  shambling  awkward  figure,  with  loose 
black  knee-breeches  and  buckled  shoes.  The  figure  made  a 
strange  sidelong  bow ;  and  hurrying  in  a  lateral  course,  like 


96  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

a  crab  suddenly  alarmed,  towards  a  dim  recess  protected  by  a 
long  table,  sank  behind  a  curtain  fold,  and  seemed  to  vanish 
as  a  crab  does  amidst  the  shingles. 

"Three  minutes  yet  to  dinner,  and  two  before  the  letter- 
carrier  goes,"  said  the  host,  glancing  at  his  watch.  "Mr. 
Fairthorn,  will  you  write  a  note  for  me?  "  There  was  a  mutter 
from  behind  the  curtain.  Darrell  walked  to  the  place,  and 
whispered  a  few  words,  returned  to  the  hearth,  rang  the  bell. 
"  Another  letter  for  the  post,  Mills :  Mr.  Fairthorn  is  sealing 
it.  You  are  looking  at  my  book-shelves,  Lionel.  As  I  un- 
derstand that  your  master  spoke  highly  of  you,  I  presume 
that  you  are  fond  of  reading." 

"I  think  so,  but  I  am  not  sure,"  answered  Lionel,  whom 
his  cousin's  conciliatory  words  had  restored  to  ease  and  good- 
humour. 

"You  mean,  perhaps,  that  you  like  reading,  if  you  may 
choose  your  own  books." 

"  Or  rather,  if  I  may  choose  my  own  time  to  read  them,  and 
that  would  not  be  on  bright  summer  days." 

"  Without  sacrificing  bright  summer  days,  one  finds  one  has 
made  little  progress  when  the  long  winter  nights  come." 

"Yes,  sir.  But  must  the  sacrifice  be  paid  in  books?  I 
fancy  I  learned  as  much  in  the  play-ground  as  I  did  u  the 
schoolroom,  and  for  the  last  few  months,  in  much  my  own 
master,  reading  hard  in  the  forenoon,  it  is  true,  for  many 
hours  at  a  stretch,  and  yet  again  for  a  few  hours  at  evening, 
but  rambling  also  through  the  streets,  or  listening  to  a  few 
friends  whom  I  have  contrived  to  make, —  I  think,  if  I  can 
boast  of  any  progress  at  all,  the  books  have  the  smaller  share 
in  it." 

"You  would,  then,  prefer  an  active  life  to  a  studious  one?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  yes." 

"Dinner  is  served,"  said  the  decorous  Mr.  Mills,  throwing 
open  the  door. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  97 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  our  happy  country  every  man's  house  is  his  castle.  But  however  stoutly 
he  fortify  it,  Care  enters,  as  surely  as  she  did  in  Horace's  time,  through 
the  porticos  of  a  Roman's  villa.  Nor,  whether  ceilings  be  fretted  with 
gold  and  ivory,  or  whether  only  coloured  with  whitewash,  does  it  matter 
to  Care  any  more  than  it  does  to  a  house-fly.  But  every  tree,  be  it  cedar 
or  blackthorn,  can  harbour  its  singing-bird ;  and  few  are  the  homes  in 
which,  from  nooks  least  suspected,  there  starts  not  a  music.  Is  it  quite 
true  that,  "  non  avium  citharaeque  cantus  somnum  reducent "  *  Would  not 
even  Damocles  himself  have  forgotten  the  sword,  if  the  lute-player  had 
chanced  on  the  notes  that  lull  ? 

THE  dinner  was  simple  enough,  but  well  dressed  and  well 
served.  One  footman,  in  plain  livery,  assisted  Mr.  Mills. 
Darrell  ate  sparingly,  and  drank  only  water,  which  was 
placed  by  his  side  iced,  with  a  single  glass  of  wine  at  the 
close  of  the  repast,  which  he  drank  on  bending  his  head  to 
Lionel,  with  a  certain  knightly  grace,  and  the  prefatory 
words  of  "Welcome  here  to  a  Haughton."  Mr.  Fairthorn 
was  less  abstemious ;  tasted  of  every  dish,  after  examining  it 
long  through  a  pair  of  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  and  drank 
leisurely  through  a  bottle  of  port,  holding  up  every  glass  to 
the  light.  Darrell  talked  with  his  usual  cold  but  not  uncour- 
teous  indifference.  A  remark  of  Lionel  on  the  portraits  in 
the  room  turned  the  conversation  chiefly  upon  pictures,  and 
the  host  showed  himself  thoroughly  accomplished  in  the  attri- 
butes of  the  various  schools  and  masters.  Lionel,  who  was 
very  fond  of  the  art,  and  indeed  painted  well  for  a  youthful 
amateur,  listened  with  great  delight. 

"Surely,  sir,"  said  he,  struck  much  with  a  very  subtile 
observation  upon  the  causes  why  the  Italian  masters  admit  of 
copyists  with  greater  facility  than  the  Flemish, —  "surely, 
sir,  you  yourself  must  have  practised  the  art  of  painting?  " 

"Not  I;   but  I  instructed  myself  as  a  judge  of  pictures, 
because  at  one  time  I  was  a  collector." 
VOL.  i.  —  7 


98  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Fairthorn,  speaking  for  the  first  time :  "  The  rarest  collec- 
tion,—  such  Albert  Durers!  such  Holbeins!  and  that  head  by 
Leonardo  da  Vinci !  "  He  stopped ;  looked  extremely  fright- 
ened; helped  himself  to  the  port,  turning  his  back  upon  his 
host,  to  hold,  as  usual,  the  glass  to  the  light. 

"Are  they  here,  sir?"  asked  Lionel. 

DarrelPs  face  darkened,  and  he  made  no  answer;  but  his 
head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he  seemed  suddenly  absorbed  in 
gloomy  thought.  Lionel  felt  that  he  had  touched  a  wrong 
chord,  and  glanced  timidly  towards  Fairthorn;  but  that  gen- 
tleman cautiously  held  up  his  finger,  and  then  rapidly  put  it 
to  his  lip,  and  as  rapidly  drew  it  away.  After  that  signal 
the  boy  did  not  dare  to  break  the  silence,  which  now  lasted 
uninterruptedly  till  Darrell  rose,  and  with  the  formal  and 
superfluous  question,  "Any  more  wine?"  led  the  way  back  to 
the  library.  There  he  ensconced  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
saying,  "Will  you  find  a  book  for  yourself,  Lionel?"  took  a 
volume  at  random  from  the  nearest  shelf,  and  soon  seemed 
absorbed  in  its  contents.  The  room,  made  irregular  by  bay- 
windows,  and  shelves  that  projected  as  in  public  libraries, 
abounded  with  nook  and  recess.  To  one  of  these  Fairthorn 
sidled  himself,  and  became  invisible.  Lionel  looked  round 
the  shelves.  No  belles  lettres  of  our  immediate  generation 
were  found  there;  none  of  those  authors  most  in  request  in 
circulating  libraries  and  literary  institutes.  The  shelves 
disclosed  no  poets,  no  essayists,  no  novelists,  more  recent  than 
the  Johnsonian  age.  Neither  in  the  lawyer's  library  were  to 
be  found  any  law  books;  no,  nor  the  pamphlets  and  parlia- 
mentary volumes  that  should  have  spoken  of  the  once  eager 
politician.  But  there  were  superb  copies  of  the  ancient  class- 
ics. French  and  Italian  authors  were  not  wanting,  nor  such 
of  the  English  as  have  withstood  the  test  of  time.  The 
larger  portions  of  the  shelves  seemed,  however,  devoted  to 
philosophical  works.  Here  alone  was  novelty  admitted, — 
the  newest  essays  on  science,  or  the  best  editions  of  old  works 
thereon.  Lionel  at  length  made  his  choice, —  a  volume  of  the 
"Faerie  Queene."  Coffee  was  served;  at  a  later  hour  tea. 
The  clock  struck  ten.  Darrell  laid  down  his  book. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  99 

"Mr.  Fail-thorn,  the  flute!" 

From  the  recess  a  mutter;  and  presently  —  the  musician 
remaining  still  hidden  —  there  came  forth  the  sweetest  note, 
—  so  dulcet,  so  plaintive!  Lionel's  ear  was  ravished.  The 
music  suited  well  with  the  enchanted  page  through  which 
his  fancy  had  been  wandering  dreamlike, — the  flute  with  the 
"Faerie  Queene."  As  the  air  flowed  liquid  on,  Lionel's  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  He  did  not  observe  that  Darrell  was  in- 
tently watching  him.  When  the  music  stopped,  he  turned 
aside  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  Somehow  or  other, 
what  with  the  poem,  what  with  the  flute,  his  thoughts  had 
wandered  far,  far  hence  to  the  green  banks  and  blue  waves  of 
the  Thames, — to  Sophy's  charming  face,  to  her  parting  child- 
ish gift!  And  where  was  she  now?  Whither  passing  away, 
after  so  brief  a  holiday,  into  the  shadows  of  forlorn  life? 

Darrell 's  bell-like  voice  smote  his  ear. 

"Spenser;  you  love  him!     Do  you  write  poetry?" 

"No,  sir:  I  only  feel  it!" 

"  Do  neither ! "  said  the  host,  abruptly.  Then,  turning 
away,  he  lighted  his  candle,  murmured  a  quick  good-night, 
and  disappeared  through  a  side-door  which  led  to  his  own 
rooms. 

Lionel  looked  round  for  Fairthorn,  who  now  emerged  ab 
angulo  from  his  nook. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fairthorn,  how  you  have  enchanted  me !  I  never 
believed  the  flute  could  have  been  capable  of  such  effects !  " 

Mr.  Fairthorn's  grotesque  face  lighted  up.  He  took  off  his 
spectacles,  as  if  the  better  to  contemplate  the  face  of  his  eulo- 
gist. "So  you  were  pleased!  really?"  he  said,  chuckling  a 
strange,'  grim  chuckle,  deep  in  his  inmost  self. 

"  Pleased !  it  is  a  cold  word !  Who  would  not  be  more  than 
pleased?" 

"You  should  hear  me  in  the  open  air." 

"Let  me  do  so  —  to-morrow." 

"My  dear  young  sir,  with  all  my  heart.  Hist!"  —  gazing 
round  as  if  haunted, —  "I  like  you.  I  wish  him  to  like  you. 
Answer  all  his  questions  as  if  you  did  not  care  how  he  turned 
you  inside  out.  Never  ask  him  a  question,  as  if  you  sought 


100  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

to  know  what  he  did  not  himself  confide.  So  there  is  some- 
thing, you  think,  in  a  flute,  after  all?  There  are  people  who 
prefer  the  fiddle." 

"Then  they  never  heard  your  flute,  Mr.  Fairthorn."  The 
musician  again  emitted  his  discordant  chuckle,  and,  nodding 
his  head  nervously  and  cordially,  shambled  away  without 
lighting  a  candle,  and  was  engulfed  in  the  shadows  of  some 
mysterious  corner. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  old  world  and  the  new. 

IT  was  long  before  Lionel  could  sleep.  What  with  the 
strange  house  and  the  strange  master,  what  with  the  magic 
flute  and  the  musician's  admonitory  caution,  what  with  ten- 
der and  regretful  reminiscences  of  Sophy,  his  brain  had 
enough  to  work  on.  When  he  slept  at  last,  his  slumber  was 
deep  and  heavy,  and  he  did  not  wake  till  gently  shaken  by 
the  well-bred  arm  of  Mr.  Mills.  "I  humbly  beg  pardon: 
nine  o'clock,  sir,  and  the  breakfast-bell  going  to  ring." 
Lionel's  toilet  was  soon  hurried  over;  Mr.  Darrell  and  Fair- 
thorn  were  talking  together  as  he  entered  the  breakfast-room, 
—  the  same  room  as  that  in  which  they  had  dined. 

"  Good  morning,  Lionel, "  said  the  host.  "  No  leave-taking 
to-day,  as  you  threatened.  I  find  you  have  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Fairthorn,  and  I  shall  place  you  under  his 
care.  You  may  like  to  look  over  the  old  house,  and  make 
yourself  "  —  Darrell  paused  —  " at  home,"  jerked  out  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn,  filling  up  the  hiatus.  Darrell  turned  his  eye  towards 
the  speaker,  who  evidently  became  much  frightened,  and, 
after  looking  in  vain  for  a  corner,  sidled  away  to  the  window 
and  poked  himself  behind  the  curtain.  "Mr.  Fairthorn,  in 
the  capacity  of  my  secretary,  has  learned  to  find  me  thoughts, 
and  put  them  in  his  own  words, "  said  Darrell,  with  a  cold- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  101 

ness  almost  icy.  He  then  seated  himself  at  the  breakfast- 
table;  Lionel  followed  his  example,  and  Mr.  Fairthorn, 
courageously  emerging,  also  took  a  chair  and  a  roll.  "You 
are  a  true  diviner,  Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Lionel;  "it  is  a  glorious 
day." 

"  But  there  will  be  showers  later.  The  fish  are  at  play  on 
the  surface  of  the  lake,"  Darrell  added,  with  a  softened  glance 
towards  Fairthorn,  who  was  looking  the  picture  of  misery. 
"After  twelve,  it  will  be  just  the  weather  for  trout  to  rise; 
and  if  you  fish,  Mr.  Fairthorn  will  lend  you  a  rod.  He  is  a 
worthy  successor  of  Izaak  Walton,  and  loves  a  companion  as 
Izaak  did,  but  more  rarely  gets  one." 

"Are  there  trout  in  your  lake,  sir?" 

"The  lake!  You  must  not  dream  of  invading  that  sacred 
water.  The  inhabitants  of  rivulets  and  brooks  not  within 
my  boundary  are  beyond  the  pale  of  Fawley  civilization,  to 
be  snared  and  slaughtered  like  Caffres,  red  men,  or  any  other 
savages,  for  whom  we  bait  with  a  missionary  and  whom  we 
impale  on  a  bayonet.  But  I  regard  my  lake  as  a  politic  com- 
munity, under  the  protection  of  the  law,  and  leave  its  deni- 
zens to  devour  each  other,  as  Europeans,  fishes,  and  other 
cold-blooded  creatures  wisely  do,  in  order  to  check  the  over- 
growth of  population.  To  fatten  one  pike  it  takes  a  great 
many  minnows.  Naturally  I  support  the  vested  rights  of 
pike.  I  have  been  a  lawyer." 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  describe  the  manner  in  which  Mr. 
Darrell  vented  this  or  similar  remarks  of  mocking  irony  or 
sarcastic  spleen.  It  was  not  bitter  nor  sneering,  but  in  his 
usual  mellifluous  level  tone  and  passionless  tranquillity. 

The  breakfast  was  just  over  as  a  groom  passed  in  front  of 
the  windows  with  a  led  horse.  "I  am  going  to  leave  you, 
Lionel,"  said  the  host,  "to  make  —  friends  with  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn,  and  I  thus  complete,  according  to  my  own  original  in- 
tention, the  sentence  which  he  diverted  astray."  He  passed 
across  the  hall  to  the  open  house-door,  and  stood  by  the  horse, 
stroking  its  neck  and  giving  some  directions  to  the  groom. 
Lionel  and  Fairthorn  followed  to  the  threshold,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  horse  provoked  the  boy's  admiration:  it  was  a 


102  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

dark  muzzled  brown,  of  that  fine  old-fashioned  breed  of  Eng- 
lish roadster  which  is  now  so  seldom  seen,  —  showy,  bow- 
necked,  long-tailed,  stumbling,  reedy  hybrids,  born  of  bad 
barbs,  ill-mated,  having  mainly  supplied  their  place.  This 
was,  indeed,  a  horse  of  great  power,  immense  girth  of  loin, 
high  shoulder,  broad  hoof;  and  such  a  head!  the  ear,  the 
frontal,  the  nostril!  you  seldom  see  a  human  physiognomy 
half  so  intelligent,  half  so  expressive  of  that  high  spirit  and 
sweet  generous  temper,  which,  when  united,  constitute  the 
ideal  of  thorough-breeding,  whether  in  horse  or  man.  The 
English  rider  was  in  harmony  with  the  English  steed.  Dar- 
rell  at  this  moment  was  resting  his  arm  lightly  on  the  ani- 
mal's shoulder,  and  his  head  still  uncovered.  It  has  been 
said  before  that  he  was  of  imposing  presence;  the  striking 
attribute  of  his  person,  indeed,  was  that  of  unconscious  grand- 
eur; yet,  though  above  the  ordinary  height,  he  was  not  very 
tall  —  five  feet  eleven  at  the  utmost  —  and  far  from  being 
very  erect.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  that  habitual  bend  in 
his  proud  neck  which  men  who  meditate  much  and  live  alone 
almost  invariably  contract.  But  there  was,  to  use  an  expres- 
sion common  with  our  older  writers,  that  "  great  air "  about 
him  which  filled  the  eye,  and  gave  him  the  dignity  of  elevated 
stature,  the  commanding  aspect  that  accompanies  the  upright 
carriage.  His  figure  was  inclined  to  be  slender,  though  broad 
of  shoulder  and  deep  of  chest;  it  was  the  figure  of  a  young 
man  and  probably  little  changed  from  what  it  might  have 
been  at  five-and-twenty.  A  certain  youthf ulness  still  lingered 
even  on  the  countenance, — strange,  for  sorrow  is  supposed  to 
expedite  the  work  of  age ;  and  Darrell  had  known  sorrow  of  a 
kind  most  adapted  to  harrow  his  peculiar  nature,  as  great  in ' 
its  degree  as  ever  left  man's  heart  in  ruins.  No  gray  was 
visible  in  the  dark  brown  hair,  that,  worn  short  behind,  still 
retained  in  front  the  large  Jove-like  curl.  No  wrinkle,  save 
at  the  corner  of  the  eyes,  marred  the  pale  bronze  of  the  firm 
cheek;  the  forehead  was  smooth  as  marble,  and  as  massive. 
It  was  that  forehead  which  chiefly  contributed  to  the  superb 
expression  of  his  whole  aspect.  It  was  high  to  a  fault;  the 
perceptive  organs,  over  a  dark,  strongly-marked,  arched  eye- 


103 

brow,  powerfully  developed,  as  they  are  with  most  eminent 
lawyers ;  it  did  not  want  for  breadth  at  the  temples ;  yet,  on 
the  whole,  it  bespoke  more  of  intellectual  vigour  and  daunt- 
less will  than  of  serene  philosophy  or  all-embracing  benevo- 
lence. It  was  the  forehead  of  a  man  formed  to  command  and 
awe  the  passions  and  intellect  of  others  by  the  strength  of 
passions  in  himself,  rather  concentred  than  chastised,  and 
by  an  intellect  forceful  from  the  weight  of  its  mass  rather 
than  the  niceness  of  its  balance.  The  other  features  har- 
monized with  that  brow;  they  were  of  the  noblest  order  of 
aquiline,  at  once  high  and  delicate.  The  lip  had  a  rare  com- 
bination of  exquisite  refinement  and  inflexible  resolve.  The 
eye,  in  repose,  was  cold,  bright,  unrevealing,  with  a  certain 
absent,  musing,  self-absorbed  expression,  that  often  made  the 
man's  words  appear  as  if  spoken  mechanically,  and  assisted 
towards  that  seeming  of  listless  indifference  to  those  whom 
he  addressed,  by  which  he  wounded  vanity  without,  perhaps, 
any  malice  prepense.  But  it  was  an  eye  in  which  the  pupil 
could  suddenly  expand,  the  hue  change  from  gray  to  dark, 
and  the  cold  still  brightness  flash  into  vivid  fire.  It  could 
not  have  occurred  to  any  one,  even  to  the  most  commonplace 
woman,  to  have  described  Darrell's  as  a  handsome  face ;  the 
expression  would  have  seemed  trivial  and  derogatory;  the 
words  that  would  have  occurred  to  all,  would  have  been  some- 
what to  this  effect :  "  What  a  magnificent  countenance !  What 
a  noble  head ! "  Yet  an  experienced  physiognomist  might 
have  noted  that  the  same  lineaments  which  bespoke  a  virtue 
bespoke  also  its  neighbouring  vice;  that  with  so  much  will 
there  went  stubborn  obstinacy;  that  with  that  power  of  grasp 
there  would  be  the  tenacity  in  adherence  which  narrows,  in 
astringing,  the  intellect;  that  a  prejudice  once  conceived,  a 
passion  once  cherished,  would  resist  all  rational  argument  for 
relinquishment.  When  men  of  this  mould  do  relinquish  prej- 
udice or  passion,  it  is  by  their  own  impulse,  their  own  sure 
conviction  that  what  they  hold  is  worthless :  then  they  do  not 
yield  it  graciously ;  they  fling  it  from  them  in  scorn,  but  not 
a  scorn  that  consoles.  That  which  they  thus  wrench  away  had 
grown  a  living  part  of  themselves :  their  own  flesh  bleeds ;  the 


104  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

wound  seldom  or  never  heals.  Such  men  rarely  fail  in  the 
achievement  of  what  they  covet,  if  the  gods  are  neutral ;  but, 
adamant  against  the  world,  they  are  vulnerable  through  their 
affections.  Their  love  is  intense,  but  undemonstrative;  their 
hatred  implacable,  but  unrevengef ul,  —  too  proud  to  revenge, 
too  galled  to  pardon. 

There  stood  Guy  Darrell,  to  whom  the  bar  had  destined  its 
highest  honours,  to  whom  the  senate  had  accorded  its  most 
rapturous  cheers ;  and  the  more  you  gazed  on  him  as  he  there 
stood,  the  more  perplexed  became  the  enigma, — how  with  a 
career  sought  with  such  energy,  advanced  with  such  success, 
the  man  had  abruptly  subsided  into  a  listless  recluse,  and  the 
career  had  been  voluntarily  resigned  for  a  home  without 
neighbours,  a  hearth  without  children. 

"  I  had  no  idea, "  said  Lionel,  as  Darrell  rode  slowly  away, 
soon  lost  from  sight  amidst  the  thick  foliage  of  summer  trees, 
—  "I  had  no  idea  that  my  cousin  was  so  young !  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Fairthorn;  "he  is  only  a  year  older 
than  I  am !  " 

"  Older  than  you ! "  exclaimed  Lionel,  staring  in  blunt 
amaze  at  the  elderly-looking  personage  beside  him;  "yet  true, 
he  told  me  so  himself." 

"And  I  am  fifty-one  last  birthday." 

"  Mr.  Darrell  fifty-two !     Incredible !  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  we  should  ever  grow  old,  the  life  we 
lead,"  observed  Mr.  Fairthorn,  readjusting  his  spectacles. 
"Time  stands  so  still!  Fishing,  too,  is  very  conducive  to 
longevity.  If  you  will  follow  me,  we  will  get  the  rods ;  and 
the  flute, — you  are  quite  sure  you  would  like  the  flute?  Yes! 
thank  you,  my  dear  young  sir.  And  yet  there  are  folks  who 
prefer  the  fiddle ! " 

"Is  not  the  sun  a  little  too  bright  for  the  fly  at  present; 
and  will  you  not,  in  the  meanwhile,  show  me  over  the 
house?" 

"Very  well;  not  that  this  house  has  much  worth  seeing. 
The  other  indeed  would  have  had  a  music-room!  But,  after 
all,  nothing  like  the  open  air  for  the  flute.  This  way." 

I  spare    thee,    gentle    reader,    the    minute    inventory  of 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  105 

Fawley  Manor  House.  It  had  nothing  but  its  antiquity  to 
recommend  it.  It  had  a  great  many  rooms,  all,  except  those 
used  as  the  dining-room  and  library,  very  small,  and  very 
low, —  innumerable  closets,  nooks, — unexpected  cavities,  as 
if  made  on  purpose  for  the  venerable  game  of  hide-and-seek. 
Save  a  stately  old  kitchen,  the  offices  were  sadly  defective 
even  for  Mr.  Darrell's  domestic  establishment,  which  con- 
sisted but  of  two  men  and  four  maids  (the  stablemen  not  lodg- 
ing in  the  house).  Drawing-room  properly  speaking  that 
primitive  mansion  had  none.  At  some  remote  period  a  sort 
of  gallery  under  the  gable  roofs  (above  the  first  floor),  stretch- 
ing from  end  to  end  of  the  house,  might  have  served  for  the 
reception  of  guests  on  grand  occasions;  for  fragments  of 
mouldering  tapestry  still  here  and  there  clung  to  the  walls; 
and  a  high  chimney-piece,  whereon,  in  plaster  relief,  was 
commemorated  the  memorable  fishing  party  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  retained  patches  of  colour  and  gilding,  which 
must  when  fresh  have  made  the  Egyptian  queen  still  more 
appallingly  hideous,  and  the  fish  at  the  end  of  Antony's  hook 
still  less  resembling  any  creature  known  to  ichthyologists. 

The  library  had  been  arranged  into  shelves  from  floor  to 
roof  by  Mr.  Darrell's  father,  and  subsequently,  for  the  mere 
purpose  of  holding  as  many  volumes  as  possible,  brought  out 
into  projecting  wings  (college-like)  by  Darrell  himself,  with- 
out any  pretension  to  mediaeval  character.  With  this  room 
communicated  a  small  reading-closet,  which  the  host  reserved 
to  himself ;  and  this,  by  a  circular  stair  cut  into  the  massive 
wall,  ascended  first  into  Mr.  Darrell's  sleeping-chamber,  and 
thence  into  a  gable  recess  that  adjoined  the  gallery,  and  which 
the  host  had  fitted  up  for  the  purpose  of  scientific  experiments 
in  chemistry  or  other  branches  of  practical  philosophy.  These 
more  private  rooms  Lionel  was  not  permitted  to  enter. 

Altogether  the  house  was  one  of  those  cruel  tenements 
which  it  would  be  a  sin  to  pull  down,  or  even  materially  to 
alter,  but  which  it  would  be  an  hourly  inconvenience  for  a 
modern  family  to  inhabit.  It  was  out  of  all  character  with 
Mr.  Darrell's  former  position  in  life,  or  with  the  fortune 
which  Lionel  vaguely  supposed  him  to  possess,  and  considera- 


106  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

bly  underrated.  Like  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  the  man  had  grown 
too  large  for  his  habitation. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Lionel,  as,  their  wanderings  over, 
he  and  Fairthorn  found  themselves  in  the  library,  "  that  Mr. 
Darrell  began  to  build  a  new  house.  But  it  would  have  been 
a  great  pity  to  pull  down  this  for  it." 

"  Pull  down  this !  Don't  hint  at  such  an  idea  to  Mr.  Dar- 
rell. He  would  as  soon  have  pulled  down  the  British  Mon- 
archy! Nay,  I  suspect,  sooner." 

"But  the  new  building  must  surely  have  swallowed  up  the 
old  one?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  Mr.  Darrell  had  a  plan  by  which  he  would  have 
enclosed  this  separately  in  a  kind  of  court,  with  an  open 
screen- work  or  cloister;  and  it  was  his  intention  to  appro- 
priate it  entirely  to  mediaeval  antiquities,  of  which  he  has  a 
wonderful  collection.  He  had  a  notion  of  illustrating  every 
earlier  reign  in  which  his  ancestors  flourished, — different 
apartments  in  correspondence  with  different  dates.  It  would 
have  been  a  chronicle  of  national  manners." 

"But,  if  it  be  not  an  impertinent  question,  where  is  this 
collection?  In  London?" 

"Hush!  hush!  I  will  give  you  a  peep  of  some  of  the 
treasures,  only  don't  betray  me." 

Fairthorn  here,  with  singular  rapidity,  considering  that  he 
never  moved  in  a  straightforward  direction,  undulated  into 
the  open  air  in  front  of  the  house,  described  a  rhomboid  to- 
wards a  side-buttress  in  the  new  building,  near  to  which  was 
a  postern-door ;  unlocked  that  door  from  a  key  in  his  pocket, 
and,  motioning  Lionel  to  follow  him,  entered  within  the  ribs 
of  the  stony  skeleton.  Lionel  followed  in  a  sort  of  supernat- 
ural awe,  and  beheld,  with  more  substantial  alarm,  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn  winding  up  an  inclined  plank  which  he  embraced  with 
both  arms,  and  by  which  he  ultimately  ascended  to  a  timber 
joist  in  what  should  have  been  an  upper  floor,  only  flooring 
there  was  none.  Perched  there,  Fairthorn  glared  down  on 
Lionel  through  his  spectacles.  "Dangerous,"  ne  said  whis- 
peringly;  "but  one  gets  used  to  everything!  If  you  feel 
afraid,  don't  venture!" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  107 

Lionel,  animated  by  that  doubt  of  his  courage,  sprang  up 
the  plank,  balancing  himself  schoolboy  fashion,  with  out- 
stretched arms,  and  gained  the  side  of  his  guide. 

"  Don't  touch  me ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairthorn,  shrinking, 
"or  we  shall  both  be  over.  Now  observe  and  imitate." 
Dropping  himself,  then,  carefully  and  gradually,  till  he 
dropped  on  the  timber  joist  as  if  it  were  a  velocipede,  his 
long  legs  dangling  down,  he  with  thigh  and  hand  impelled 
himself  onward  till  he  gained  the  ridge  of  a  wall,  on  which  he 
delivered  his  person,  and  wiped  his  spectacles. 

Lionel  was  not  long  before  he  stood  in  the  same  place. 
"Here  we  are,"  said  Fairthorn. 

"  I  don't  see  the  collection, "  answered  Lionel,  first  peering 
down  athwart  the  joists  upon  the  rugged  ground  overspread 
with  stones  and  rubbish,  then  glancing  up  through  similar 
interstices  above  to  the  gaunt  rafters. 

"Here  are  some, —  most  precious,"  answered  Fairthorn, 
tapping  behind  him.  "  Walled  up,  except  where  these  boards, 
cased  in  iron,  are  nailed  across,  with  a  little  door  just  big 
enough  to  creep  through ;  but  that  is  locked, —  Chubb's  lock, 
and  Mr.  Darrell  keeps  the  key !  —  treasures  for  a  palace !  No, 
you  can't  peep  through  here  —  not  a  chink;  but  come  on  a 
little  further, — mind  your  footing." 

Skirting  the  wall,  and  still  on  the  perilous  ridge,  Fairthorn 
crept  on,  formed  an  angle,  and  stopping  short,  clapped  his 
eye  to  the  crevice  of  some  planks  nailed  rudely  across  a  yawn- 
ing aperture.  Lionel  found  another  crevice  for  himself,  and 
saw,  piled  up  in  admired  disorder,  pictures,  with  their  backs 
turned  to  a  desolate  wall,  rare  cabinets,  and  articles  of  curi- 
ous furniture,  chests,  boxes,  crates, — heaped  pell-mell.  This 
receptacle  had  been  roughly  floored  in  deal,  in  order  to  sup- 
port its  miscellaneous  contents,  and  was  lighted  from  a  large 
window  (not  visible  in  front  of  the  house),  glazed  in  dull 
rough  glass,  with  ventilators. 

"  These  are  the  heavy  things,  and  least  costly  things,  that 
no  one  could  well  rob.  The  pictures  here  are  merely  curious 
as  early  specimens,  intended  for  the  old  house,  all  spoiling 
and  rotting;  Mr.  Darrell  wishes  them  to  do  so,  I  believe! 


108  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

What  he  wishes  must  be  done!  my  dear  young  sir:  a  prodi- 
gious mind ;  it  is  of  granite !  " 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  Lionel,  aghast.  "The  last 
man  I  should  have  thought  capriciously  whimsical." 

"Whimsical!  Bless  my  soul!  don't  say  such  a  word, — 
don't,  pray!  or  the  roof  will  fall  down  upon  us!  Come  away. 
You  have  seen  all  you  can  see.  You  must  go  first  now;  mind 
that  loose  stone  there !  " 

Nothing  further  was  said  till  they  were  out  of  the  building; 
and  Lionel  felt  like  a  knight  of  old  who  had  been  led  into 
sepulchral  halls  by  a  wizard. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  annals  of  empire  are  briefly  chronicled  in  family  records  brought  down 
to  the  present  day,  showing  that  the  race  of  men  is  indeed  "  like  leaves  on 
trees,  now  green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground."  Yet  to  the 
branch  the  most  bare  will  green  leaves  return,  so  long  as  the  sap  can 
remount  to  the  branch  from  the  root ;  but  the  branch  which  has  ceased 
to  take  life  from  the  root  —  hang  it  high,  hang  it  low  —  is  a  prey  to  the 
wind  and  the  woodman. 

IT  was  mid-day.  The  boy  and  his  new  friend  were  stand- 
ing apart,  as  becomes  silent  anglers,  on  the  banks  of  a  narrow 
brawling  rivulet,  running  through  green  pastures,  half  a  mile 
from  the  house.  The  sky  was  overcast,  as  Darrell  had  pre- 
dicted, but  the  rain  did  not  yet  fall.  The  two  anglers  were 
not  long  before  they  had  filled  a  basket  with  small  trout. 

Then  Lionel,  who  was  by  no  means  fond  of  fishing,  laid  his 
rod  on  the  bank,  and  strolled  across  the  long  grass  to  his 
companion. 

"It  will  rain  soon,"  said  he.  "Let  us  take  advantage  of  the 
present  time,  and  hear  the  flute,  while  we  can  yet  enjoy  the 
open  air.  No,  not  by  the  margin,  or  you  will  be  always  look- 
ing after  the  trout.  On  the  rising  ground,  see  that  old  thorn  • 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  109 

tree;  let  us  go  and  sit  under  it.  The  new  building  looks  well 
from  it.  What  a  pile  it  would  have  been!  I  may  not  ask 
you,  I  suppose,  why  it  is  left  uncompleted.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  cost  too  much,  or  would  have  been  disproportionate  to 
the  estate." 

"  To  the  present  estate  it  would  have  been  disproportioned, 
but  not  to  the  estate  Mr.  Darrell  intended  to  add  to  it.  As  to 
cost,  you  don't  know  him.  He  would  never  have  undertaken 
what  he  could  not  afford  to  complete ;  and  what  he  once  un- 
dertook, no  thoughts  of  the  cost  would  have  scared  him  from 
finishing.  Prodigious  mind, —  granite!  And  so  rich !"  added 
Fairthorn,  with  an  air  of  great  pride.  "I  ought  to  know;  I 
write  all  his  letters  on  money  matters.  How  much  do  you 
think  he  has,  without  counting  land?" 

"I  cannot  guess." 

"Nearly  half  a  million;  in  two  years  it  will  be  more  than 
half  a  million.  And  he  had  not  three  hundred  a  year  when 
he  began  life;  for  Fawley  was  sadly  mortgaged." 

"Is  it  possible!  Could  any  lawyer  make  half  a  million  at 
the  bar?" 

"  If  any  man  could,  Mr.  Darrell  would.  When  he  sets  his 
mind  on  a  thing,  the  thing  is  done;  no  help  for  it.  But  his 
fortune  was  not  all  made  at  the  bar,  though  a  great  part  of  it 
was.  An  old  East  Indian  bachelor  of  the  same  name,  but 
who  had  never  been  heard  of  hereabouts  till  he  wrote  from 
Calcutta  to  Mr.  Darrell  (inquiring  if  they  were  any  relation, 
and  Mr.  Darrell  referred  him  to  the  College-at-Arms,  which 
proved  that  they  came  from  the  same  stock  ages  ago),  left 
him  all  his  money.  Mr.  Darrell  was  not  dependent  on  his 
profession  when  he  stood  up  in  Parliament.  And  since  we 
have  been  here,  such  savings !  Not  that  Mr.  Darrell  is  ava- 
ricious, but  how  can  he  spend  money  in  this  place?  You 
should  have  seen  the  establishment  we  kept  in  Carlton 
Gardens.  Such  a  cook  too, —  a  French  gentleman,  looked 
like  a  marquis.  Those  were  happy  days,  and  proud  ones! 
It  is  true  that  I  order  the  dinner  here,  but  it  can't  be 
the  same  thing.  Do  you  like  fillet  of  veal?  —  we  have  one 
to-day." 


110  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"  We  used  to  have  fillet  of  veal  at  school  on  Sundays.  I 
thought  it  good  then." 

"It  makes  a  nice  mince,"  said  Mr.  Fairthorn,  with  a  sen- 
sual movement  of  his  lips.  "  One  must  think  of  dinner  when 
one  lives  in  the  country:  so  little  else  to  think  of!  Not  that 
Mr.  Darrell  does,  but  then  he  is  granite ! " 

"Still,"  said  Lionel,  smiling,  "I  do  not  get  my  answer. 
Why  was  the  house  uncompleted?  and  why  did  Mr.  Darrell 
retire  from  public  life?" 

"He  took  both  into  his  head;  and  when  a  thing  once  gets 
there,  it  is  no  use  asking  why.  But,"  added  Fairthorn,  and 
his  innocent  ugly  face  changed  into  an  expression  of  earnest 
sadness, —  "but  no  doubt  he  had  his  reasons.  He  has  reasons 
for  all  he  does,  only  they  lie  far,  far  away  from  what  appears 
on  the  surface, —  far  as  that  rivulet  lies  from  its  source!  My 
dear  young  sir,  Mr.  Darrell  has  known  griefs  on  which  it 
does  not  become  you  and  me  to  talk.  He  never  talks  of  them. 
The  least  I  can  do  for  my  benefactor  is  not  to  pry  into  his 
secrets,  nor  babble  them  out.  And  he  is  so  kind,  so  good, 
never  gets  into  a  passion ;  but  it  is  so  awful  to  wound  him, 
—  it  gives  him  such  pain ;  that 's  why  he  frightens  me,  — 
frightens  me  horribly;  and  so  he  will  you  when  you  come 
to  know  him.  Prodigious  mind !  —  granite,  —  overgrown 
with  sensitive  plants.  Yes,  a  little  music  will  do  us  both 
good." 

Mr.  Fairthorn  screwed  his  flute,  an  exceedingly  handsome 
one.  He  pointed  out  its  beauties  to  Lionel  —  a  present  from 
Mr.  Darrell  last  Christmas  —  and  then  he  began.  Strange 
thing,  Art!  especially  music.  Out  of  an  art,  a  man  may  be 
so  trivial  you  would  mistake  him  for  an  imbecile, —  at  best  a 
grown  infant.  Put  him  into  his  art,  and  how  high  he  soars 
above  you!  How  quietly  he  enters  into  a  heaven  of  which 
he  has  become  a  denizen,  and  unlocking  the  gates  with  his 
golden  key,  admits  you  to  follow,  a  humble  reverent  visitor. 

In  his  art,  Fairthorn  was  certainly  a  master,  and  the  air 
he  now  played  was  exquisitely  soft  and  plaintive ;  it  accorded 
with  the  clouded  yet  quiet  sky,  with  the  lone  but  summer 
landscape,  with  Lionel's  melancholic  but  not  afflicted  train 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  Ill 

of  thought.  The  boy  could  only  murmur  "  Beautiful ! "  when 
the  musician  ceased. 

"It  is  an  old  air,"  said  Fairthorn;  "I  don't  think  it  is 
known.  I  found  its  scale  scrawled  down  in  a  copy  of  the 
'Eikon  Basilike,'  with  the  name  of  'Joannes  Darrell,  Esq., 
Aurat,'  written  under  it.  That,  by  the  date,  was  Sir  John 
Darrell,  the  cavalier  who  fought  for  Charles  I.,  father  of  the 
graceless  Sir  Ralph,  who  flourished  under  Charles  II.  Both 
their  portraits  are  in  the  dining-room." 

"Tell  me  something  of  the  family;  I  know  so  little  about 
it, — not  even  how  the  Haughtons  and  Darrells  seem  to  have 
been  so  long  connected.  I  see  by  the  portraits  that  the 
Haughton  name  was  borne  by  former  Darrells,  then  appar- 
ently dropped,  now  it  is  borne  again  by  my  cousin." 

"  He  bears  it  only  as  a  Christian  name.  Your  grandfather 
was  his  sponsor.  But  he  is  nevertheless  the  head  of  your 
family." 

"So  he  says.     How?" 

Fairthorn  gathered  himself  up,  his  knees  to  his  chin,  and 
began  in  the  tone  of  a  guide  who  has  got  his  lesson  by  heart; 
though  it  was  not  long  before  he  warmed  into  his  subject. 

"The  Darrells  are  supposed  to  have  got  their  name  from  a 
knight  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  who  held  the  lists  in  a 
joust  victoriously  against  all  comers,  and  was  called,  or  called 
himself,  John  the  Dare-all;  or,  in  old  spelling,  the  Der-all. 
They  were  amongst  the  most  powerful  families  in  the  coun- 
try; their  alliances  were  with  the  highest  houses, —  Mont- 
fichets,  Nevilles,  Mowbrays;  they  descended  through  such 
marriages  from  the  blood  of  Plantagenet  kings.  You  '11  find 
their  names  in  chronicles  in  the  early  French  wars.  Un- 
luckily they  attached  themselves  to  the  fortunes  of  Earl  War- 
wick, the  king-maker,  to  whose  blood  they  were  allied ;  their 
representative  was  killed  in  'the  fatal  field  of  Barnet;  their 
estates  were  of  course  confiscated;  the  sole  son  and  heir  of 
that  ill-fated  politician  passed  into  the  Low  Countries,  where 
he  served  as  a  soldier.  His  son  and  grandson  followed  the 
same  calling  under  foreign  banners.  But  they  must  have 
kept  up  the  love  of  the  old  land;  for  in  the  latter  part  of  the 


112  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

reign  of  Henry  VII L,  the  last  male  Darrell  returned  to  Eng- 
land with  some  broad  gold  pieces  saved  by  himself  or  his  ex- 
iled fathers,  bought  some  land  in  this  county,  in  which  the 
ancestral  possessions  had  once  been  large,  and  built  the  pres- 
ent house,  of  a  size  suited  to  the  altered  fortunes  of  a  race 
that  in  a  former  age  had  manned  castles  with  retainers.  The 
baptismal  name  of  the  soldier  who  thus  partially  refounded 
the  old  line  in  England  was  that  now  borne  by  your  cousin, 
Guy, — a  name  always  favoured  by  Fortune  in  the  family  an- 
nals; for  in  Elizabeth's  time,  from  the  rank  of  small  gentry, 
to  which  their  fortune  alone  lifted  them  since  their  return  to 
their  native  land,  the  Darrells  rose  once  more  into  wealth  and 
eminence  under  a  handsome  young  Sir  Guy, —  we  have  his 
picture  in  black  flowered  velvet, —  who  married  the  heiress  of 
the  Haughtons,  a  family  that  had  grown  rich  under  the 
Tudors,  and  was  in  high  favour  with  the  Maiden-Queen. 
This  Sir  Guy  was  befriended  by  Essex  and  knighted  by  Eliz- 
abeth herself.  Their  old  house  was  then  abandoned  for  the 
larger  mansion  of  the  Haughtons,  which  had  also  the  advan- 
tage of  being  nearer  to  the  Court,  The  renewed  prosperity 
of  the  Darrells  was  of  short  duration.  The  Civil  Wars  came 
on,  and  Sir  John  Darrell  took  the  losing  side.  He  escaped  to 
France  with  his  only  son.  He  is  said  to  have  been  an  accom- 
plished, melancholy  man;  and  my  belief  is,  that  he  composed 
that  air  which  you  justly  admire  for  its  mournful  sweetness. 
He  turned  Roman  Catholic  and  died  in  a  convent.  But  the 
son,  Ralph,  was  brought  up  in  France  with  Charles  II.  and 
other  gay  roisterers.  On  the  return  of  the  Stuart,  Ralph  ran 
off  with  the  daughter  of  the  Roundhead  to  whom  his  estates 
had  been  given,  and,  after  getting  them  back,  left  his  wife  in 
the  country,  and  made  love  to  other  men's  wives  in  town. 
Shocking  profligate!  no  fruit  could  thrive  upon  such  a  branch. 
He  squandered  all  he  could  squander,  and  would  have  left  his 
children  beggars,  but  that  he  was  providentially  slain  in  a 
tavern  brawl  for  boasting  of  a  lady's  favours  to  her  husband's 
face.  The  husband  suddenly  stabbed  him, —  no  fair  duello, 
for  Sir  Ralph  was  invincible  with  the  small  sword.  Still  the 
family  fortune  was  much  dilapidated,  yet  still  the  Darrells 


.     WHAT  WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  113 

lived  in  the  fine  house  of  the  Haughtons,  and  left  Fawley  to 
the  owls.  But  Sir  Ralph's  son,  in  his  old  age,  married  a  sec- 
ond time,  a  young  lady  of  high  rank,  an  earl's  daughter.  He 
must  have  been  very  much  in  love  with  her,  despite  his  age, 
for  to  win  her  consent  or  her  father's  he  agreed  to  settle  all 
the  Haughton  estates  on  her  and  the  children  she  might  bear 
to  him.  The  smaller  Darrell  property  had  already  been  en- 
tailed on  his  son  by  his  first  marriage.  This  is  how  the  fam- 
ily came  to  split.  Old  Darrell  had  children  by  his  second 
wife;  the  eldest  of  those  children  took  the  Haughton  name 
and  inherited  the  Haughton  property.  The  son  by  the  first 
marriage  had  nothing  but  Fawley  and  the  scanty  domain 
round  it.  You  descend  from  the  second  marriage,  Mr.  Dar- 
rell from  the  first.  You  understand  now,  my  dear  young  sir?  " 

"  Yes,  a  little ;  but  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  where 
those  fine  Haughton  estates  are  now?" 

"Where  they  are  now?  I  can't  say.  They  were  once  in 
Middlesex.  Probably  much  of  the  land,  as  it  was  sold  piece- 
meal, fell  into  small  allotments,  constantly  changing  hands. 
But  the  last  relics  of  the  property  were,  I  know,  bought  on 
speculation  by  Cox  the  distiller;  for,  when  we  were  in  Lon- 
don, by  Mr.  Darrell's  desire  I  went  to  look  after  them,  and 
inquire  if  they  could  be  repurchased.  And  I  found  that  so  rapid 
in  a  few  years  has  been  the  prosperity  of  this  great  commer- 
cial country,  that  if  one  did  buy  them  back,  one  would  buy 
twelve  villas,  several  streets,  two  squares,  and  a  paragon! 
But  as  that  symptom  of  national  advancement,  though  a  proud 
thought  in  itself,  may  not  have  any  pleasing  interest  for  you, 
I  return  to  the  Darrells.  From  the  time  in  which  the  Haugh- 
ton estate  had  parted  from  them,  they  settled  back  in  their 
old  house  of  Fawley.  But  they  could  never  again  hold  up 
their  heads  with  the  noblemen  and  great  squires  in  the 
county.  As  much  as  they  could  do  to  live  at  all  upon  the 
little  patrimony;  still  the  reminiscence  of  what  they  had  been 
made  them  maintain  it  jealously  and  entail  it  rigidly.  The 
eldest  son  would  never  have  thought  of  any  profession  or 
business;  the  younger  sons  generally  became  soldiers,  and 
being  always  a  venturesome  race,  and  having  nothing  partic- 

VOL.  I.  —  8 


114  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

ular  to  make  them  value  their  existence,  were  no  less  gener- 
ally killed  off  betimes.  The  family  became  thoroughly 
obscure,  slipped  out  of  place  in  the  county,  seldom  rose  to  be 
even  justices  of  the  peace,  never  contrived  to  marry  heiresses 
again,  but  only  the  daughters  of  some  neighbouring  parson  or 
squire  as  poor  as  themselves,  but  always  of  gentle  blood. 
Oh,  they  were  as  proud  as  Spaniards  in  that  respect!  So 
from  father  to  son,  each  generation  grew  obscurer  and  poorer; 
for,  entail  the  estate  as  they  might,  still  some  settlements  on 
it  were  necessary,  and  no  settlements  were  ever  brought  into 
it ;  and  thus  entails  were  cut  off  to  admit  some  new  mortgage, 
till  the  rent-roll  was  somewhat  less  than  £300  a  year  when 
Mr.  Darrell's  father  came  into  possession.  Yet  somehow  or 
other  he  got  to  college,  where  no  Darrell  had  been  since  the 
time  of  the  Glorious  Revolution,  and  was  a  learned  man  and 
an  antiquary, —  A  GREAT  ANTIQUARY!  You  may  have  read 
his  works.  I  know  there  is  one  copy  of  them  in  the  British 
Museum,  and  there  is  another  here,  but  that  copy  Mr.  Darrell 
keeps  under  lock  and  key." 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  don't  even  know  the  titles  of  those 
works." 

"There  were  'Popular  Ballads  on  the  Wars  of  the  Eoses; ' 
'Darrelliana,'  consisting  of  traditional  and  other  memorials 
of  the  Darrell  family;  'Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  Legends 
Connected  with  Dragons;'  'Hours  amongst  Monumental 
Brasses, '  and  other  ingenious  lucubrations  above  the  taste  of 
the  vulgar ;  some  of  them  were  even  read  at  the  Royal  Society 
of  Antiquaries.  They  cost  much  to  print  and  publish.  But 
I  have  heard  my  father,  who  was  his  bailiff,  say  that  he  was 
a  pleasant  man,  and  was  fond  of  reciting  old  scraps  of  poetry, 
which  he  did  with  great  energy;  indeed,  Mr.  Darrell  declares 
that  it  was  the  noticing,  in  his  father's  animated  and  felici- 
tous elocution,  the  effects  that  voice,  look,  and  delivery  can 
give  to  words,  which  made  Mr.  Darrell  himself  the  fine 
speaker  he  is.  But  I  can  only  recollect  the  antiquary  as  a 
very  majestic  gentleman,  with  a  long  pigtail  —  awful,  rather, 
not  so  much  so  as  his  son,  but  still  awful  —  and  so  sad-look- 
ing; you  would  not  have  recovered  your  spirits  for  a  week  if 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  115 

you  had  seen  him,  especially  when  the  old  house  wanted  re- 
pairs, and  he  was  thinking  how  he  could  pay  for  them !  " 

"Was  Mr.  Darrell,  the  present  one,  an  only  child?" 

"Yes,  and  much  with  his  father,  whom  he  loved  most 
dearly,  and  to  this  day  he  sighs  if  he  has  to  mention  his 
father's  name!  He  has  old  Mr.  Darrell's  portrait  over  the 
chimney-piece  in  his  own  reading-room;  and  he  had  it  in  his 
own  library  in  Carlton  Gardens.  Our  Mr.  Darrell's  mother 
was  very  pretty,  even  as  I  remember  her :  she  died  when  he 
was  about  ten  years  old.  And  she  too  was  a  relation  of 
yours, —  a  Haughton  by  blood, —  but  perhaps  you  will  be 
ashamed  of  her,  when  I  say  she  was  a  governess  in  a  rich 
mercantile  family.  She  had  been  left  an  orphan.  I  believe 
old  Mr.  Darrell  (not  that  he  was  old  then)  married  her  be- 
cause the  Haughtons  could  or  would  do  nothing  for  her,  and 
because  she  was  much  snubbed  and  put  upon,  as  I  am  told 
governesses  usually  are, —  married  her  because,  poor  as  he 
was,  he  was  still  the  head  of  both  families,  and  bound  to  do 
what  he  could  for  decayed  scions.  The  first  governess  a  Dar- 
rell, ever  married ;  but  no  true  Darrell  would  have  called  that 
a  mesalliance  since  she  was  still  a  Haughton  and  Tors  non 
mutat  genus,' — Chance  does  not  change  race." 

"But  how  comes  it  that  the  Haughtons,  my  grandfather 
Haughton,  I  suppose,  would  do  nothing  for  his  own  kins- 
woman ?" 

"  It  was  not  your  grandfather  Kobert  Haughton,  who  was  a 
generous  man, —  he  was  then  a  mere  youngster,  hiding  him- 
self for  debt, —  but  your  great-grandfather,  who  was  a  hard 
man  and  on  the  turf.  He  never  had  money  to  give, —  only 
money  for  betting.  He  left  the  Haughton  estates  sadly 
dipped.  But  when  Robert  succeeded,  he  came  forward,  was 
godfather  to  our  Mr.  Darrell,  insisted  on  sharing  the  expense 
of  sending  him  to  Eton,  where  he  became  greatly  distin- 
guished; thence  to  Oxford,  where  he  increased  his  reputa- 
tion; and  would  probably  have  done  more  for  him,  only  Mr. 
Darrell,  once  his  foot  on  the  ladder,  wanted  no  help  to  climb 
to  the  top." 

"Then  my  grandfather,  Kobert,  still  had  the  Haughton 


116  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

estates?  Their  last  relics  had  not  been  yet  transmuted  "by 
Mr.  Cox  into  squares  and  a  paragon?" 

"No;  the  grand  old  mansion,  though  much  dilapidated, 
with  its  park,  though  stripped  of  salable  timber,  was  still  left 
with  a  rental  from  farms  that  still  appertained  to  the  resi- 
dence, which  would  have  sufficed  a  prudent  man  for  the  lux- 
uries of  life,  and  allowed  a  reserve  fund  to  clear  off  the 
mortgages  gradually.  Abstinence  and  self-denial  for  one  or 
two  generations  would  have  made  a  property,  daily  rising  in 
value  as  the  metropolis  advanced  to  its  outskirts,  a  princely 
estate  for  a  third.  But  Robert  Haughton,  though  not  on  the 
turf,  had  a  grand  way  of  living;  and  while  Guy  Darrell  went 
into  the  law  to  make  a  small  patrimony  a  large  fortune,  your 
father,  my  dear  young  sir,  was  put  into  the  Guards  to  reduce 
a  large  patrimony  —  into  Mr.  Cox's  distillery." 

Lionel  coloured,  but  remained  silent. 

Fairthorn,  who  was  as  unconscious  in  his  zest  of  narrator 
that  he  was  giving  pain  as  an  entomologist  in  his  zest  for  col- 
lecting when  he  pins  a  live  moth  in  his  cabinet,  resumed: 
"Your  father  and  Guy  Darrell  were  warm  friends  as  boys 
and  youths.  Guy  was  the  elder  of  the  two,  and  Charlie 
Haughton  (I  beg  your  pardon,  he  was  always  called  Charlie) 
looked  up  to  him  as  to  an  elder  brother.  Many 's  the  scrape 
Guy  got  him  out  of;  and  many  a  pound,  I  believe,  when  Guy 
had  some  funds  of  his  own,  did  Guy  lend  to  Charlie." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that, "  said  Lionel,  sharply. 

Fairthorn  looked  frightened.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  have  made  a 
blunder.  Don't  tell  Mr.  Darrell." 

"Certainly  not;  I  promise.  But  how  came  my  father  to 
need  this  aid,  and  how  came  they  at  last  to  quarrel?" 

"  Your  father  Charlie  became  a  gay  young  man  about  town, 
and  very  much  the  fashion.  He  was  like  you  in  person,  only 
his  forehead  was  lower,  and  his  eye  not  so  steady.  Mr.  Dar- 
rell studied  the  law  in  chambers.  When  Robert  Haughton 
died,  what  with  his  debts,  what  with  his  father's,  and  what 
with  Charlie's  post-obits  and  I O  U's,  there  seemed  small 
chance  indeed  of  saving  the  estate  to  the  Haughtons.  But 
then  Mr.  Darrell  looked  close  into  matters,  and  with  such 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  117 

skill  did  he  settle  them  that  he  removed  the  fear  of  foreclo- 
sure; and  what  with  increasing  the  rental  here  and  there, 
and  replacing  old  mortgages  by  new  at  less  interest,  he  con- 
trived to  extract  from  the  property  an  income  of  nine  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  to  Charlie  (three  times  the  income  Darrell 
had  inherited  himself),  where  before  it  had  seemed  that  the 
debts  were  more  than  the  assets.  Foreseeing  how  much  the 
land  would  rise  in  value,  he  then  earnestly  implored  Charlie 
(who  unluckily  had  the  estate  in  fee-simple,  as  Mr.  Darrell 
has  this,  to  sell  if  he  pleased)  to  live  on  his  income,  and  in  a 
few  years  a  part  of  the  property  might  be  sold  for  building 
purposes,  on  terms  that  would  save  all  the  rest,  with  the  old 
house  in  which  Darrells  and  Haughtons  both  had  once  reared 
generations.  Charlie  promised,  I  know,  and  I  Jve  no  doubt, 
my  dear  young  sir,  quite  sincerely;  but  all  men  are  not  gran- 
ite !  He  took  to  gambling,  incurred  debts  of  honour,  sold  the 
farms  one  by  one,  resorted  to  usurers,  and  one  night,  after 
playing  six  hours  at  piquet,  nothing  was  left  for  him  but  to 
sell  all  that  remained  to  Mr.  Cox  the  distiller,  unknown  to 
Mr.  Darrell,  who  was  then  married  himself,  working  hard, 
and  living  quite  out  of  news  of  the  fashionable  world.  Then 
Charlie  Haughton  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  spent  what  he  got 
for  his  commission,  went  into  the  Line;  and  finally,  in  a 
country  town,  in  which  I  don't  think  he  was  quartered,  but 
having  gone  there  on  some  sporting  speculation,  was  unwill- 
ingly detained,  married  —  " 

"My  mother!"  said  Lionel,  haughtily;  "and  the  best  of 
women  she  is.  What  then?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear  young  sir, — nothing,  except  that  Mr. 
Darrell  never  forgave  it.  He  has  his  prejudices :  this  mar- 
riage shocked  one  of  them." 

"Prejudice  against  my  poor  mother!  I  always  supposed 
so!  I  wonder  why?  The  most  simple-hearted,  inoffensive, 
affectionate  woman." 

"I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it;  but  it  is  beginning  to  rain.  Let 
us  go  home.  I  should  like  some  luncheon:  it  breaks  the 
day." 

"Tell  me  first  why  Mr.  Darrell  has  a  prejudice  against  my 


118  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

mother.  I  don't  think  that  he  has  even  seen  her.  Unac- 
countable caprice!  Shocked  him,  too, — what  a  word!  Tell 
me  —  I  beg  —  I  insist." 

"But  you  know,"  said  Fairthorn,  half  piteously,  half  snap- 
pishly, "that  Mrs.  Haughton  was  the  daughter  of  a  linen- 
draper,  and  her  father's  money  got  Charlie  out  of  the  county 
jail ;  and  Mr.  Darrell  said,  '  Sold  even  your  name ! '  My 
father  heard  him  say  it  in  the  hall  at  Fawley.  Mr.  Darrell 
was  there  during  a  long  vacation,  and  your  father  came  to  see 
him.  Your  father  fired  up,  and  they  never  saw  each  other, 
I  believe,  again." 

Lionel  remained  still  as  if  thunder-stricken.  Something 
in  his  mother's  language  and  manner  had  at  times  made  him 
suspect  that  she  was  not  so  well  born  as  his  father.  But  it 
was  not  the  discovery  that  she  was  a  tradesman's  daughter 
that  galled  him;  it  was  the  thought  that  his  father  was 
bought  for  the  altar  out  of  the  county  jail!  It  was  those 
cutting  words,  "Sold  even  your  name."  His  face,  before 
very  crimson,  became  livid;  his  head  sank  on  his  breast.  He 
walked  towards  the  old  gloomy  house  by  Fairthorn's  side,  as 
one  who,  for  the  first  time  in  life,  feels  on  his  heart  the  leaden 
weight  of  an  hereditary  shame. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SHOWING  how  sinful  it  is  in  a  man  who  does  not  care  for  his  honour  to 
beget  children. 

WHEN  Lionel  saw  Mr.  Fairthorn  devoting  his  intellectual 
being  to  the  contents  of  a  cold  chicken-pie,  he  silently  stepped 
out  of  the  room  and  slunk  away  into  a  thick  copse  at  the 
farthest  end  of  the  paddock.  He  longed  to  be  alone.  The 
rain  descended,  not  heavily,  but  in  penetrating  drizzle;  he 
did  not  feel  it,  or  rather  he  felt  glad  that  there  was  no  gaudy 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO  WITH  IT?  119 

mocking  sunlight.  He  sat  down  forlorn  in  the  hollows  of  a 
glen  which  the  copse  covered,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
clasped  hands. 

Lionel  Haughton,  as  the  reader  may  have  noticed,  was  no 
premature  man, —  a  manly  boy,  but  still  a  habitant  of  the 
twilight,  dreamy,  shadow-land  of  boyhood.  Noble  elements 
were  stirring  fitfully  within  him,  but  their  agencies  were 
crude  and  undeveloped.  Sometimes,  through  the  native  acute- 
ness  of  his  intellect,  he  apprehended  truths  quickly  and  truly 
as  a  man ;  then,  again,  through  the  warm  haze  of  undisciplined 
tenderness,  or  the  raw  mists  of  that  sensitive  pride  in  which 
objects,  small  in  themselves,  loom  large  with  undetected  out- 
lines, he  fell  back  into  the  passionate  dimness  of  a  child's 
reasoning.  He  was  intensely  ambitious;  Quixotic  in  the 
point  of  honour ;  dauntless  in  peril :  but  morbidly  trembling 
at  the  very  shadow  of  disgrace,  as  a  foal,  destined  to  be  the 
war-horse  and  trample  down  levelled  steel,  starts  in  its  tran- 
quil pastures  at  the  rustling  of  a  leaf.  Glowingly  romantic, 
but  not  inclined  to  vent  romance  in  literary  creations,  his 
feelings  were  the  more  high-wrought  and  enthusiastic  because 
they  had  no  outlet  in  poetic  channels.  Most  boys  of  great 
ability  and  strong  passion  write  verses  •  it  is  Nature's  relief 
to  brain  and  heart  at  the  critical  turning  age.  Most  boys 
thus  gifted  do  so;  a  few  do  not,  and  out  of  those  few  Fate 
selects  the  great  men  of  action, — those  large  luminous  char- 
acters that  stamp  poetry  on  the  world's  prosaic  surface. 
Lionel  had  in  him  the  pith  and  substance  of  Fortune's  grand 
nobodies,  who  become  Fame's  abrupt  somebodies  when  the 
chances  of  life  throw  suddenly  in  their  way  a  noble  some- 
thing, to  be  ardently  coveted  and  boldly  won.  But  I  repeat, 
as  yet  he  was  a  boy;  so  he  sat  there,  his  hands  before  his 
face,  an  unreasoning  self-torturer.  He  knew  now  why  this 
haughty  Darrell  had  written  with  so  little  tenderness  and 
respect  to  his  beloved  mother.  Darrell  looked  on  her  as  the 
cause  of  his  ignoble  kinsman's  "  sale  of  name ; "  nay,  most 
probably  ascribed  to  her  not  the  fond  girlish  love  which 
levels  all  disparities  of  rank,  but  the  vulgar  cold-blooded  de- 
sign to  exchange  her  father's  bank-notes  for  a  marriage  beyond 


120  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

her  station.  And  he  was  the  debtor  to  this  supercilious  cred- 
itor, as  his  father  had  been  before  him.  His  father!  till 
then  he  had  been  so  proud  of  that  relationship !  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton  had  not  been  happy  with  her  captain;  his  confirmed 
habits  of  wild  dissipation  had  embittered  her  union,  and  at 
last  worn  away  her  wifely  affections.  But  she  had  tended 
and  nursed  him  in  his  last  illness  as  the  lover  of  her  youth; 
and  though  occasionally  she  hinted  at  his  faults,  she  ever 
spoke  of  him  as  the  ornament  of  all  society, — poor,  it  is  true, 
harassed  by  unfeeling  creditors,  but  the  finest  of  fine  gentle- 
men. Lionel  had  never  heard  from  her  of  the  ancestral  es- 
tates sold  for  a  gambling  debt;  never  from  her  of  the  county 
jail  nor  the  mercenary  mesalliance.  In  boyhood,  before  we 
have  any  cause  to  be  proud  of  ourselves,  we  are  so  proud  of 
our  fathers,  if  we  have  a  decent  excuse  for  it.  Of  his  father 
could  Lionel  Haughton  be  proud  now?  And  Darrell  was  cog- 
nizant of  his  paternal  disgrace,  had  taunted  his  father  in 
yonder  old  hall  —  for  what?  —  the  marriage  from  which  Li- 
onel sprang !  The  hands  grew  tighter  and  tighter  before  that 
burning  face.  He  did  not  weep,  as  he  had  done  in  Vance's 
presence  at  a  thought  much  less  galling.  Not  that  tears 
would  have  misbecome  him.  Shallow  judges  of  human  nature 
are  they  who  think  that  tears  in  themselves  ever  misbecome 
boy  or  even  man.  Well  did  the  sternest  of  Eoman  writers 
place  the  arch  distinction  of  humanity  aloft  from  all  meaner 
of  Heaven's  creatures,  in  the  prerogative  of  tears!  Sooner 
mayst  thou  trust  thy  purse  to  a  professional  pickpocket  than 
give  loyal  friendship  to  the  man  who  boasts  of  eyes  to  which 
the  heart  never  mounts  in  dew !  Only,  when  man  weeps  he 
should  be  alone, —  not  because  tears  are  weak,  but  because 
they  should  be  sacred.  Tears  are  akin  to  prayers.  Pharisees 
parade  prayer !  impostors  parade  tears.  0  Pegasus,  Pegasus, 
—  softly,  softly, — thou  hast  hurried  me  off  amidst  the  clouds: 
drop  me  gently  down  —  there,  by  the  side  of  the  motionless 
boy  in  the  shadowy  glen. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  121 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

LIONEL  HAUGHTON,  having  hitherto  much  improved  his  chance  of  fortune, 
decides  the  question,  "  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  " 

"I  HAVE  been  seeking  you  everywhere,"  said  a  well-known 
voice;  and  a  hand  rested  lightly  on  Lionel's  shoulder.  The 
boy  looked  up,  startled,  but  yet  heavily,  and  saw  Guy  Dar- 
rell,  the  last  man  on  earth  he  could  have  desired  to  see. 
"Will  you  come  in  for  a  few  minutes?  you  are  wanted." 

"What  for?  I  would  rather  stay  here.  Who  can  want 
me?" 

Darrell,  struck  by  the  words  and  the  sullen  tone  in  which 
they  were  uttered,  surveyed  Lionel's  face  for  an  instant,  and 
replied  in  a  voice  involuntarily  more  kind  than  usual,  — 

"  Some  one  very  commonplace,  but  since  the  Picts  went  out 
of  fashion,  very  necessary  to  mortals  the  most  sublime.  I 
ought  to  apologize  for  his  coming.  You  threatened  to  leave 
me  yesterday  because  of  a  defect  in  your  wardrobe.  Mr. 
Fairthorn  wrote  to  my  tailor  to  hasten  hither  and  repair  it. 
He  is  here.  I  commend  him  to  your  custom!  Don't  despise 
him  because  he  makes  for  a  man  of  my  remote  generation. 
Tailors  are  keen  observers  and  do  not  grow  out  of  date  so 
quickly  as  politicians." 

The  words  were  said  with  a  playful  good -humour  very  un- 
common to  Mr.  Darrell.  The  intention  was  obviously  kind 
and  kinsmanlike.  Lionel  sprang  to  his  feet;  his  lip  curled, 
his  eye  flashed,  and  his  crest  rose. 

"No,  sir;  I  will  not  stoop  to  this!  I  will  not  be  clothed  by 
your  charity, — yours!  I  will  not  submit  to  an  implied  taunt 
upon  my  poor  mother's  ignorance  of  the  manners  of  a  rank  to 
which  she  was  not  born!  You  said  we  might  not  like  each 
other,  and,  if  so,  we  should  part  forever.  I  do  not  like  you, 
and  I  will  go ! "  He  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  to  the 


122  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

house  —  magnanimous.  If  Mr.  Darrell  had  not  been  the  most 
singular  of  men,  he  might  well  have  been  offended.  As  it 
was,  though  few  were  less  accessible  to  surprise,  he  was  sur- 
prised. But  offended?  Judge  for  yourself.  "I  declare," 
muttered  Guy  Darrell,  gazing  on  the  boy's  receding  figure, — 
"  I  declare  that  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  could  once  again  be  capa- 
ble of  an  emotion !  I  hope  I  am  not  going  to  like  that  boy ! 
The  old  Darrell  blood  in  his  veins,  surely.  I  might  have 
spoken  as  he  did  at  his  age,  but  I  must  have  had  some  better 
reason  for  it.  What  did  I  say  to  justify  such  an  explosion? 
Quid  fed?  —  ubi  lapsus?  Gone,  no  doubt,  to  pack  up  his 
knapsack,  and  take  the  Road  to  Ruin!  Shall  I  let  him  go? 
Better  for  me,  if  I  am  really  in  danger  of  liking  him;  and  so 
be  at  his  mercy  to  sting  —  what?  my  heart!  I  defy  him;  it 
is  dead.  No;  he  shall  not  go  thus.  I  am  the  head  of  our 
joint  houses.  Houses!  I  wish  he  had  a  house,  poor  boy! 
And  his  grandfather  loved  me.  Let  him  go?  I  will  beg  his 
pardon  first;  and  he  may  dine  in  his  drawers  if  that  will 
settle  the  matter." 

Thus,  no  less  magnanimous  than  Lionel,  did  this  misan- 
thropical man  follow  his  ungracious  cousin.  "Ha!"  cried 
Darrell,  suddenly,  as,  approaching  the  threshold,  he  saw  Mr. 
Fairthorn  at  the  dining-room  window  occupied  in  nibbing  a 
pen  upon  an  ivory  thumb-stall  —  "I  have  hit  it !  That  abom- 
inable Fairthorn  has  been  shedding  its  prickles !  How  could 
I  trust  flesh  and  blood  to  such  a  bramble?  I  '11  know  what  it 
was  this  instant !  "  Vain  menace !  No  sooner  did  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn  catch  glimpse  of  Darrell's  countenance  within  ten  yards 
of  the  porch,  than,  his  conscience  taking  alarm,  he  rushed 
incontinent  from  the  window,  the  apartment,  and,  ere  Darrell 
could  fling  open  the  door,  was  lost  in  some  lair  —  "nullis  pen- 
etrabilis  astris"  —  in  that  sponge-like  and  cavernous  abode 
wherewith  benignant  Providence  had  suited  the  locality  to 
the  creature. 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  123 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


NEW  imbroglio  in  that  ever-recurring,  never-to-be-settled  question, 
"  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  " 


WITH  a  disappointed  glare  and  a  baffled  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
der, Mr.  Darrell  turned  from  the  dining-room,  and  passed  up 
the  stairs  to  Lionel's  chamber,  opened  the  door  quickly,  and 
extending  his  hand  said,  in  that  tone  which  had  disarmed  the 
wrath  of  ambitious  factions,  and  even  (if  fame  lie  not)  once 
seduced  from  the  hostile  Treasury-bench  a  placeman's  vote, 
"I  must  have  hurt  your  feelings,  and  I  come  to  beg  your 
pardon ! " 

But  before  this  time  Lionel's  proud  heart,  in  which  un- 
grateful anger  could  not  long  find  room,  had  smitten  him  for 
so  ill  a  return  to  well-meant  and  not  indelicate  kindness. 
And,  his  wounded  egotism  appeased  by  its  very  outburst,  he 
had  called  to  mind  Fairthorn's  allusions  to  Darrell's  secret 
griefs, — griefs  that  must  have  been  indeed  stormy  so  to  have 
revulsed  the  currents  of  a  life.  And,  despite  those  griefs, 
the  great  man  had  spoken  playfully  to  him, —  playfully  in 
order  to  make  light  of  obligations.  So  when  Guy  Darrell 
now  extended  that  hand,  and  stooped  to  that  apology,  Lionel 
was  fairly  overcome.  Tears,  before  refused,  now  found  irre- 
sistible way.  The  hand  he  could  not  take,  but,  yielding  to 
his  yearning  impulse,  he  threw  his  arms  fairly  round  his 
host's  neck,  leaned  his  young  cheek  upon  that  granite  breast, 
and  sobbed  out  incoherent  words  of  passionate  repentance, — 
honest,  venerating  affection.  Darrell's  face  changed,  looking 
for  a  moment  wondrous  soft;  and  then,  as  by  an  effort  of  su- 
preme self-control,  it  became  severely  placid.  He  did  not  re- 
turn that  embrace,  but  certainly  he  in  no  way  repelled  it ;  nor 
did  he  trust  himself  to  speak  till  the  boy  had  exhausted  the 
force  of  his  first  feelings,  and  had  turned  to  dry  his  tears. 


124  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Then  he  said,  with  a  soothing  sweetness :  "  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton,  you  have  the  heart  of  a  gentleman  that  can  never  listen 
to  a  frank  apology  for  unintentional  wrong  but  what  it 
springs  forth  to  take  the  blame  to  itself  and  return  apology 
tenfold.  Enough!  A  mistake  no  doubt,  on  both  sides.  More 
time  must  elapse  before  either  can  truly  say  that  he  does  not 
like  the  other.  Meanwhile,"  added  Darrell,  with  almost  a 
laugh, — and  that  concluding  query  showed  that  even  on  tri- 
fles the  man  was  bent  upon  either  forcing  or  stealing  his  own 
will  upon  others, —  "  meanwhile  must  I  send  away  the  tailor?  " 

I  need  not  repeat  Lionel's  answer. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DARRELL  •  mystery  in  his  past  life  —  What  has  he  done  with  it  1 

SOME  days  passed,  each  day  varying  little  from  the  other. 
It  was  the  habit  of  Darrell  if  he  went  late  to  rest  to  rise 
early.  He  never  allowed  himself  more  than  five  hours  sleep. 
A  man  greater  than  Guy  Darrell  —  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  — 
carved  from  the  solid  day  no  larger  a  slice  for  Morpheus. 
And  it  was  this  habit  perhaps,  yet  more  than  temperance  in 
diet,  which  preserved  to  Darrell  his  remarkable  jxmthfulness 
of  aspect  and  frame,  so  that  at  fifty-two  he  looked,  and  really 
was,  younger  than  many  a  strong  man  of  thirty-five.  For, 
certain  it  is,  that  on  entering  middle  life,  he  who  would  keep 
his  brain  clear,  his  step  elastic,  his  muscles  from  fleshiness, 
his  nerves  from  tremor, —  in  a  word,  retain  his  youth  in  spite 
of  the  register, —  should  beware  of  long  slumbers.  Nothing 
ages  like  laziness.  The  hours  before  breakfast  Darrell  de- 
voted first  to  exercise,  whatever  the  weather;  next  to  his 
calm  scientific  pursuits.  At  ten  o'clock  punctually  he  rode 
out  alone  and  seldom  returned  till  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  he  would  stroll  forth  with  Lionel  into  devious  wood- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  125 

lands,  or  lounge  with  him  along  the  margin  of  the  lake,  or  lie 
down  on  the  tedded  grass,  call  the  boy's  attention  to  the  in- 
sect populace  which  sports  out  its  happy  life  in  the  summer 
months,  and  treat  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  each  varying  spe- 
cies, with  a  quaint  learning,  half  humorous,  half  grave.  He 
was  a  minute  observer  and  an  accomplished  naturalist.  His 
range  of  knowledge  was,  indeed,  amazingly  large  for  a  man 
who  has  had  to  pass  his  best  years  in  a  dry  and  absorbing 
study :  necessarily  not  so  profound  in  each  section  as  that  of 
a  special  professor  j  but  if  the  science  was  often  on  the  sur- 
face, the  thoughts  he  deduced  from  what  he  knew  were  as 
often  original  and  deep.  A  maxim  of  his,  which  he  dropped 
out  one  day  to  Lionel  in  his  careless  manner,  but  pointed  dic- 
tion, may  perhaps  illustrate  his  own  practice  and  its  results : 
"  Never  think  it  enough  to  have  solved  the  problem  started 
by  another  mind  till  you  have  deduced  from  it  a  corollary  of 
your  own." 

After  dinner,  which  was  not  over  till  past  eight  o'clock, 
they  always  adjourned  to  the  library,  Fairthorn  vanishing 
into  a  recess,  Darrell  and  Lionel  each  with  his  several  book, 
then  an  air  on  the  flute,  and  each  to  his  own  room  before 
eleven.  No  life  could  be  more  methodical;  yet  to  Lionel  it 
had  an  animating  charm,  for  his  interest  in  his  host  daily  in- 
creased, and  varied  his  thoughts  with  perpetual  occupation. 
Darrell,  on  the  contrary,  while  more  kind  and  cordial,  more 
cautiously  on  his  guard  not  to  wound  his  young  guest's  sus- 
ceptibilities than  he  had  been  before  the  quarrel  and  its  rec- 
onciliation, did  not  seem  to  feel  for  Lionel  the  active  interest 
which  Lionel  felt  for  him.  He  did  not,  as  most  clever  men 
are  apt  to  do  in  their  intercourse  with  youth,  attempt  to  draw 
him  out,  plumb  his  intellect,  or  guide  his  tastes.  If  he  was 
at  times  instructive,  it  was  because  talk  fell  on  subjects  on 
which  it  pleased  himself  to  touch,  and  in  which  he  could  not 
speak  without  involuntarily  instructing.  Nor  did  he  ever 
allure  the  boy  to  talk  of  his  school-days,  of  his  friends,  of  his 
predilections,  his  hopes,  his  future.  In  short,  had  you  ob- 
served them  together,  you  would  have  never  supposed  they 
were  connections,  that  one  could  and  ought  to  influence  and 


126  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

direct  the  career  of  the  other.  You  would  have  said  the  host 
certainly  liked  the  guest,  as  any  man  would  like  a  promising, 
warm-hearted,  high-spirited,  graceful  boy,  under  his  own  roof 
for  a  short  time,  but  who  felt  that  that  boy  was  nothing  to 
him ;  would  soon  pass  from  his  eye ;  form  friends,  pursuits, 
aims,  with  which  he  could  be  in  no  way  commingled,  for 
which  he  should  be  wholly  irresponsible.  There  was  also 
this  peculiarity  in  Darrell's  conversation;  if  he  never  spoke 
of  his  guest's  past  and  future,  neither  did  he  ever  do  more 
than  advert  in  the  most  general  terms  to  his  own.  Of  that 
grand  stage  on  which  he  had  been  so  brilliant  an  actor  he 
imparted  no  reminiscences;  of  those  great  men,  the  leaders 
of  his  age,  with  whom  he  had  mingled  familiarly,  he  told  no 
anecdotes.  Equally  silent  was  he  as  to  the  earlier  steps  in 
his  career,  the  modes  by  which  he  had  studied,  the  accidents 
of  which  he  had  seized  advantage, —  silent  there  as  upon  the 
causes  he  had  gained,  or  the  debates  he  had  adorned.  Never 
could  you  have  supposed  that  this  man,  still  in  the  prime  of 
public  life,  had  been  the  theme  of  journals  and  the  boast  of 
party.  Neither  did  he  ever,  as  men  who  talk  easily  at  their 
own  hearths  are  prone  to  do,  speak  of  projects  in  the  future, 
even  though  the  projects  be  no  vaster  than  the  planting  of  a 
tree  or  the  alteration  of  a  parterre, —  projects  with  which 
rural  life  so  copiously  and  so  innocently  teems.  The  past 
seemed  as  if  it  had  left  to  him  no  memory,  the  future  as  if  it 
stored  for  him  no  desire.  But  did  the  past  leave  no  memory? 
Why  then  at  intervals  would  the  book  slide  from  his  eye,  the 
head  sink  upon  the  breast,  and  a  shade  of  unutterable  de- 
jection darken  over  the  grand  beauty  of  that  strong  stern 
countenance?  Still  that  dejection  was  not  morbidly  fed  and 
encouraged,  for  he  would  fling  it  from  him  with  a  quick  im- 
patient gesture  of  the  head,  resume  the  book  resolutely,  or 
change  it  for  another  which  induced  fresh  trains  of  thought, 
or  look  over  Lionel's  shoulder,  and  make  some  subtile  com- 
ment on  his  choice,  or  call  on  Fairthorn  for  the  flute ;  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  face  was  severely  serene  again.  And  be  it 
here  said,  that  it  is  only  in  the  poetry  of  young  gentlemen,  or 
the  prose  of  lady  novelists,  that  a  man  in  good  health  and  of 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  127 

sound  intellect  wears  the  livery  of  unvarying  gloom.  How- 
ever great  his  causes  of  sorrow,  he  does  not  forever  parade  its 
ostentatious  mourning,  nor  follow  the  hearse  of  his  hopes 
with  the  long  face  of  an  undertaker.  He  will  still  have  his 
gleams  of  cheerfulness,  his  moments  of  good  humour.  The 
old  smile  will  sometimes  light  the  eye,  and  awake  the  old 
playfulness  of  the  lip.  But  what  a  great  and  critical  sorrow 
does  leave  behind  is  often  far  worse  than  the  sorrow  itself 
has  been.  It  is  a  change  in  the  inner  man,  which  strands 
him,  as  Guy  Darrell  seemed  stranded,  upon  the  shoal  of  the 
Present;  which  the  more  he  strives  manfully  to  bear  his  bur- 
den warns  him  the  more  from  dwelling  on  the  Past;  and  the 
more  impressively  it  enforces  the  lesson  of  the  vanity  of  hu- 
man wishes  strikes  the  more  from  his  reckoning  illusive 
hopes  in  the  Future.  Thus  out  of  our  threefold  existence 
two  parts  are  annihilated, — the  what  has  been,  the  what  shall 
be.  We  fold  our  arms,  stand  upon  the  petty  and  steep  crag- 
stone,  which  alone  looms  out  of  the  Measureless  Sea,  and  say 
to  ourselves,  looking  neither  backward  nor  beyond,  "Let  us 
bear  what  is  j "  and  so  for  the  moment  the  eye  can  lighten 
and  the  lip  can  smile. 

Lionel  could  no  longer  glean  from  Mr.  Fairthorn  any  stray 
hints  upon  the  family  records.  That  gentleman  had  evidently 
been  reprimanded  for  indiscretion,  or  warned  against  its  repe- 
tition, and  he  became  as  reserved  and  mum  as  if  he  had  just 
emerged  from  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Indeed  he  shunned 
trusting  himself  again  alone  to  Lionel,  and  affecting  a  long 
arrear  of  correspondence  on  behalf  of  his  employer,  left  the 
lad  during  the  forenoons  to  solitary  angling,  or  social  Inter- 
course with  the  swans  and  the  tame  doe.  But  from  some 
mystic  concealment  within  doors  would  often  float  far  into 
the  open  air  the  melodies  of  that  magic  flute;  and  the  boy 
would  glide  back,  along  the  dark-red  mournful  walls  of  the 
old  house,  or  the  futile  pomp  of  pilastered  arcades  in  the  un- 
completed new  one,  to  listen  to  the  sound:  listening,  he, 
blissful  boy,  forgot  the  present;  he  seized  the  unchallenged 
royalty  of  his  years.  For  him  no  rebels  in  the  past  con- 
spired with  poison  to  the  wine-cup,  murder  to  the  sleep. 


128  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

No  deserts  in  the  future,  arresting  the  march  of  ambi- 
tion, said,  "Here  are  sands  for  a  pilgrim,  not  fields  for  a 
conqueror." 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  which  chapter  the  history  quietly  moves  on  to  the  next. 

THUS  nearly  a  week  had  gone,  and  Lionel  began  to  feel  per- 
plexed as  to  the  duration  of  his  visit.  Should  he  be  the  first 
to  suggest  departure?  Mr.  Darrell  rescued  him  from  that 
embarrassment.  On  the  seventh  day,  Lionel  met  his  host  in 
a  lane  near  the  house,  returning  from  his  habitual  ride.  The 
boy  walked  home  by  the  side  of  the  horseman,  patting  the 
steed,  admiring  its  shape,  and  praising  the  beauty  of  another 
saddle-horse,  smaller  and  slighter,  which  he  had  seen  in  the 
paddock  exercised  by  a  groom.  "  Do  you  ever  ride  that  chest- 
nut? I  think  it  even  handsomer  than  this." 

"Half  our  preferences  are  due  to  the  vanity  they  flatter. 
Few  can  ride  this  horse;  any  one,  perhaps,  that." 

"  There  speaks  the  Dare-all !  "  said  Lionel,  laughing. 

The  host  did  not  look  displeased. 

"Where  no  difficulty,  there  no  pleasure,"  said  he  in  his 
curt  laconic  diction.  "  I  was  in  Spain  two  years  ago.  I  had 
not  an  English  horse  there,  so  I  bought  that  A.ndalusian  jen- 
net. What  has  served  him  at  need,  no  preux  chevalier  would 
leave  to  the  chance  of  ill-usage.  So  the  jennet  came  with  me 
to  England.  You  have  not  been  much  accustomed  to  ride,  I 
suppose?" 

"Not  much;  but  my  dear  mother  thought  I  ought  to  learn. 
She  pinched  for  a  whole  year  to  have  me  taught  at  a  riding- 
school  during  one  school  vacation." 

"  Your  mother's  relations  are,  I  believe,  well  off.  Do  they 
suffer  her  to  pinch?  " 

"I  do  not  know  that  she  has  relations  living;  she  never 
speaks  of  them." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  129 

"  Indeed ! "  This  was  the  first  question  on  home  matters 
that  Darrell  had  ever  directly  addressed  to  Lionel.  He  there 
dropped  the  subject,  and  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "I  was 
not  aware  that  you  are  a  horseman,  or  I  would  have  asked 
you  to  accompany  me ;  will  you  do  so  to-morrow,  and  mount 
the  jennet?" 

"Oh,  thank  you;  I  should  like  it  so  much." 

Darrell  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  bright,  grateful 
eyes.  "I  am  only  sorry,"  he  added,  looking  aside,  "that  our 
excursions  can  be  but  few.  On  Friday  next  I  shall  submit  to 
you  a  proposition;  if  you  accept  it,  we  shall  part  on  Satur- 
day,—  liking  each  other,  I  hope:  speaking  for  myself,  the  ex- 
periment has  not  failed;  and  on  yours?" 

"  On  mine !  —  oh,  Mr.  Darrell,  if  I  dared  but  tell  you 
what  recollections  of  yourself  the  experiment  will  bequeath 
to  me!" 

"Do  not  tell  me,  if  they  imply  a  compliment,"  answered 
Darrell,  with  the  low  silvery  laugh  which  so  melodiously 
expressed  indifference  and  repelled  affection.  He  entered 
the  stable-yard,  dismounted;  and  on  returning  to  Lionel,  the 
sound  of  the  flute  stole  forth,  as  if  from  the  eaves  of  the 
gabled  roof.  "Could  the  pipe  of  Horace's  Faunus  be  sweeter 
than  that  flute?"  said  Darrell, — 

"  '  Utcunque  dulci,  Tyndare,  fistula, 
Valles,'  etc. 

What  a  lovely  ode  that  is !  What  knowledge  of  town  life ! 
what  susceptibility  to  the  rural !  Of  all  the  Latins,  Horace 
is  the  only  one  with  whom  I  could  wish  to  have  spent  a  week. 
But  no !  I  could  not  have  discussed  the  brief  span  of  human 
life  with  locks  steeped  in  Malobathran  balm  and  wreathed 
with  that  silly  myrtle.  Horace  and  I  would  have  quarrelled 
over  the  first  heady  bowl  of  Massic.  We  never  can  quarrel 
now !  Blessed  subject  and  poet-laureate  of  Queen  Proserpine, 
and,  I  dare  swear,  the  most  gentlemanlike  poet  she  ever  re- 
ceived at  court;  henceforth  his  task  is  to  uncoil  the  asps  from 
the  brows  of  Alecto,  and  arrest  the  ambitious  Orion  from  the 
chase  after  visionary  lions." 

VOL    I.  —  9 


130  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER    XL 

SHOWING  that  if  a  good  face  is  a  letter  of  recommendation,  a  good  heart 
is  a  letter  ol  credit. 

THE  next  day  they  rode  forth,  host  and  guest,  and  that  ride 
proved  an  eventful  crisis  in  the  fortune  of  Lionel  Haughton. 
Hitherto  I  have  elaborately  dwelt  on  the  fact  that  whatever 
the  regard  Darrell  might  feel  for  him,  it  was  a  regard  apart 
from  that  interest  which  accepts  a  responsibility  and  links  to 
itself  a  fate.  And  even  if,  at  moments,  the  powerful  and 
wealthy  man  had  felt  that  interest,  he  had  thrust  it  from 
him.  That  he  meant  to  be  generous  was  indeed  certain,  and 
this  he  had  typically  shown  in  a  very  trite  matter-of-fact  way. 
The  tailor,  whose  visit  had  led  to  such  perturbation,  had  re- 
ceived instructions  beyond  the  mere  supply  of  the  raiment  for 
which  he  had  been  summoned;  and  a  large  patent  portman- 
teau, containing  all  that  might  constitute  the  liberal  outfit  of 
a  young  man  in  the  rank  of  gentleman,  had  arrived  at  Faw- 
ley,  and  amazed  and  moved  Lionel,  whom  Darrell  had  by  this 
time  thoroughly  reconciled  to  the  acceptance  of  benefits.  The 
gift  denoted  this:  "In  recognizing  you  as  kinsman,  I  shall 
henceforth  provide  for  you  as  gentleman."  Darrell  indeed 
meditated  applying  for  an  appointment  in  one  of  the  public 
offices,  the  settlement  of  a  liberal  allowance,  and  a  parting 
shake  of  the  hand,  which  should  imply,  "  I  have  now  behaved 
as  becomes  me :  the  rest  belongs  to  you.  We  may  never  meet 
again.  There  is  no  reason  why  this  good-by  may  not  be 
forever." 

But  in  the  course  of  that  ride,  Darrell's  intentions  changed. 
Wherefore?  You  will  never  guess!  Nothing  so  remote  as 
the  distance  between  cause  and  effect,  and  the  cause  for  the 
effect  here  was  —  poor  little  Sophy. 

The  day  was  fresh,  with  a  lovely  breeze,  as  the  two  riders 
rode  briskly  over  the  turf  of  rolling  commons,  with  the  feath- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  131 

ery  boughs  of  neighbouring  woodlands  tossed  joyously  to  and 
fro  by  the  sportive  summer  wind.  The  exhilarating  exercise 
and  air  raised  Lionel's  spirits,  and  released  his  tongue  from 
all  trammels ;  and  when  a  boy  is  in  high  spirits,  ten  to  one 
but  he  grows  a  frank  egotist,  feels  the  teeming  life  of  his  in- 
dividuality, and  talks  about  himself.  Quite  unconsciously, 
Lionel  rattled  out  gay  anecdotes  of  his  school-days ;  his  quar- 
rel with  a  demoniacal  usher;  how  he  ran  away;  what  befell 
him;  how  the  doctor  went  after,  and  brought  him  back;  how 
splendidly  the  doctor  behaved, — neither  flogged  nor  expelled 
him,  but  after  patiently  listening,  while  he  rebuked  the  pupil, 
dismissed  the  usher,  to  the  joy  of  the  whole  academy;  how 
he  fought  the  head  boy  in  the  school  for  calling  the  doctor  a 
sneak;  how,  licked  twice,  he  yet  fought  that  head  boy  a  third 
time,  and  licked  him;  how,  when  head  boy  himself,  he  had 
roused  the  whole  school  into  a  civil  war,  dividing  the  boys 
into  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads ;  how  clay  was  rolled  out  into 
cannon-balls  and  pistol-shots,  sticks  shaped  into  swords,  the 
playground  disturbed  to  construct  fortifications ;  how  a  slov- 
enly stout  boy  enacted  Cromwell;  how  he  himself  was  ele- 
vated into  Prince  Rupert;  and  how,  reversing  all  history, 
and  infamously  degrading  Cromwell,  Rupert  would  not  con- 
sent to  be  beaten;  and  Cromwell  at  the  last,  disabled  by  an 
untoward  blow  across  the  knuckles,  ignominiously  yielded 
himself  prisoner,  was  tried  by  a  court-martial,  and  sentenced 
to  be  shot!  To  all  this  rubbish  did  Darrell  incline  his 
patient  ear, — not  encouraging,  not  interrupting,  but  some- 
times stifling  a  sigh  at  the  sound  of  Lionel's  merry  laugh,  or 
the  sight  of  his  fair  face,  with  heightened  glow  on  his  cheeks, 
and  his  long  silky  hair,  worthy  the  name  of  lovelocks,  blown 
by  the  wind  from  the  open  loyal  features,  which  might  well 
have  graced  the  portrait  of  some  youthful  Cavalier.  On 
bounded  the  Spanish  jennet,  on  rattled  the  boy  rider.  He 
had  left  school  now,  in  his  headlong  talk ;  he  was  describing 
his  first  friendship  with  Frank  Vance,  as  a  lodger  at  his 
mother's ;  how  example  fired  him,  and  he  took  to  sketch-work 
and  painting;  how  kindly  Vance  gave  him  lessons;  how  at 
one  time  he  wished  to  be  a  painter;  how  much  the  mere  idea 


132  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

of  such  a  thing  vexed  his  mother,  and  how  little  she  was 
moved  when  he  told  her  that  Titian  was  of  a  very  ancient 
family,  and  that  Francis  I.,  archetype  of  gentleman,  visited 
Leonardo  da  Vinci's  sick-bed;  and  that  Henry  VIII.  had 
said  to  a  pert  lord  who  had  snubbed  Holbein,  "  I  can  make  a 
lord  any  day,  but  I  cannot  make  a  Holbein!"  how  Mrs. 
Haughton  still  confounded  all  painters  in  the  general  image 
of  the  painter  and  the  plumber  who  had  cheated  her  so  shame- 
fully in  the  renewed  window-sashes  and  redecorated  walls, 
which  Time  and  the  four  children  of  an  Irish  family  had 
made  necessary  to  the  letting  of  the  first  floor.  And  these 
playful  allusions  to  the  maternal  ideas  were  still  not  irrever- 
ent, but  contrived  so  as  rather  to  prepossess  Darrell  in  Mrs. 
Haughton's  favour  by  bringing  out  traits  of  a  simple  natural 
mother,  too  proud,  perhaps,  of  her  only  son,  not  caring  what 
she  did,  how  she  worked,  so  that  he  might  not  lose  caste  as  a 
born  Haughton.  Darrell  understood,  and  nodded  his  head 
approvingly.  "Certainly,"  he  said,  speaking  almost  for  the 
first  time,  "  Fame  confers  a  rank  above  that  of  gentlemen  and 
of  kings;  and  as  soon  as  she  issues  her  patent  of  nobility,  it 
matters  not  a  straw  whether  the  recipient  be  the  son  of  a 
Bourbon  or  of  a  tallow-chandler.  But  if  Fame  withhold  her 
patent;  if  a  well-born  man  paint  aldermen,  and  be  not  famous 
(and  I  dare  say  you  would  have  been  neither  a  Titian  nor  a 
Holbein), — why,  he  might  as  well  be  a  painter  and  plumber, 
and  has  a  better  chance  even  of  bread  and  cheese  by  standing 
to  his  post  as  gentleman.  Mrs.  Haughton  was  right,  and  I 
respect  her." 

"Quite  right.     If  I  lived  to  the  age  of  Methuselah,  I  could 
not  paint  a  head  like  Frank  Vance." 

"And  even  he  is  not  famous  yet.  Never  heard  of  him." 
"He  will  be  famous:  I  am  sure  of  it;  and  if  you  lived  in 
London,  you  would  hear  of  him  even  now.  Oh,  sir !  such  a 
portrait  as  he  painted  the  other  day !  But  I  must  tell  you  all 
about  it. "  And  therewith  Lionel  plunged  at  once,  medias  res, 
into  the  brief  broken  epic  of  little  Sophy,  and  the  eccentric 
infirm  Belisarius  for  whose  sake  she  first  toiled  and  then 
begged ;  with  what  artless  eloquence  he  brought  out  the  col- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  133 

ours  of  the  whole  story, — now  its  humour,  now  its  pathos; 
with  what  beautifying  sympathy  he  adorned  the  image  of 
the  little  vagrant  girl,  with  her  mien  of  gentlewoman  and  her 
simplicity  of  child;  the  river  excursion  to  Hampton  Court; 
her  still  delight;  how  annoyed  he  felt  when  Vance  seemed 
ashamed  of  her  before  those  fine  people ;  the  orchard  scene  in 
which  he  had  read  Darrell's  letter,  that,  for  the  time,  drove 
her  from  the  foremost  place  in  his  thoughts ;  the  return  home, 
the  parting,  her  wistful  look  back,  the  visit  to  the  Cobbler's 
next  day ;  even  her  farewell  gift,  the  nursery  poem,  with  the 
lines  written  on  the  fly -leaf,  he  had  them  by  heart !  Darrell, 
the  grand  advocate,  felt  he  could  not  have  produced  on  a  jury, 
with  those  elements,  the  effect  which  that  boy-narrator  pro- 
duced on  his  granite  self. 

"  And,  oh,  sir !  "  cried  Lionel,  checking  his  horse,  and  even 
arresting  Darrell's  with  bold  right  hand — "oh,"  said  he,  as 
he  brought  his  moist  and  pleading  eyes  in  full  battery  upon 
the  shaken  fort  to  which  he  had  mined  his  way  —  "oh,  sir! 
you  are  so  wise  and  rich  and  kind,  do  rescue  that  poor  child 
from  the  penury  and  hardships  of  such  a  life !  If  you  could 
but  have  seen  and  heard  her!  She  could  never  have  been 
born  to  it!  You  look  away:  I  offend  you!  I  have  no  right 
to  tax  your  benevolence  for  others ;  but,  instead  of  showering 
favours  upon  me,  so  little  would  suffice  for  her!  —  if  she  were 
but  above  positive  want,  with  that  old  man  (she  would  not  be 
happy  without  him),  safe  in  such  a  cottage  as  you  give  to 
your  own  peasants !  I  am  a  man,  or  shall  be  one  soon ;  I  can 
wrestle  with  the  world,  and  force  my  way  somehow;  but  that 
delicate  child,  a  village  show,  or  a  beggar  on  the  high  road! 
— no  mother,  no  brother,  no  one  but  that  broken-down  crip- 
ple, leaning  upon  her  arm  as  his  crutch.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it.  I  am  sure  I  shall  meet  her  again  somewhere; 
and  when  I  do,  may  I  not  write  to  you,  and  will  you  not  come 
to  her  help?  Do  speak;  do  say  '  Yes,'  Mr.  Darrell." 

The  rich  man's  breast  heaved  slightly;  he  closed  his  eyes, 
but  for  a  moment.  There  was  a  short  and  sharp  struggle 
with  his  better  self,  and  the  better  self  conquered. 

"Let  go  my  reins;  see,  my  horse  puts  down  his  ears;  he 


134  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

may  do  you  a  mischief.  Now  canter  on :  you  shall  be  satis- 
fied. Give  me  a  moment  to  —  to  unbutton  my  coat :  it  is  too 
tight  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GCT  DARRELL  gives  way  to  an  impulse,  and  quickly  decides  what  he 
will  do  with  it. 

"LIONEL  HAUGHTON,"  said  Guy  Darrell,  regaining  his 
young  cousin '3  side,  and  speaking  in  a  firm  and  measured 
voice,  "  I  have  to  thank  you  for  one  very  happy  minute ;  the 
sight  of  a  heart  so  fresh  in  the  limpid  purity  of  goodness  is  a 
luxury  you  cannot  comprehend  till  you  have  come  to  my  age ; 
journeyed,  like  me,  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  found  all 
barren.  Heed  me :  if  you  had  been  half-a-dozen  years  older, 
and  this  child  for  whom  you  plead  had  been  a  fair  young 
woman,  perhaps  just  as  innocent,  just  as  charming, —  more  in 
peril, —  my  benevolence  would  have  lain  as  dormant  as  a 
stone.  A  young  man's  foolish  sentiment  for  a  pretty  girl,  — 
as  your  true  friend,  I  should  have  shrugged  my  shoulders 
and  said,  'Beware! '  Had  I  been  your  father,  I  should  have 
taken  alarm  and  frowned.  I  should  have  seen  the  sickly 
romance  which  ends  in  dupes  and  deceivers.  But  at  your 
age,  you,  hearty,  genial,  and  open-hearted  boy, — you,  caught 
but  by  the  chivalrous  compassion  for  helpless  female  child- 
hood,—  oh,  that  you  were  my  son, — oh,  that  my  dear  father's 
blood  were  in  those  knightly  veins !  I  had  a  son  once !  God 
took  him ; "  the  strong  man's  lips  quivered :  he  hurried  on. 
"  I  felt  there  was  manhood  in  you,  when  you  wrote  to  fling 
my  churlish  favours  in  my  teeth ;  when  you  would  have  left 
my  roof-tree  in  a  burst  of  passion  which  might  be  foolish,  but 
was  nobler  than  the  wisdom  of  calculating  submission, — 
manhood,  but  only  perhaps  man's  pride  as  man, — man's  heart 
not  less  cold  than  winter.  To-day  you  have  shown  me  some- 
thing far  better  than  pride ;  that  nature  which  constitutes  the 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  135 

heroic  temperament  is  completed  by  two  attributes,  —  unflinch- 
ing purpose,  disinterested  humanity.  I  know  not  yet  if  you 
have  the  first ;  you  reveal  to  me  the  second.  Yes !  I  accept 
.the  duties  you  propose  to  me;  I  will  do  more  than  leave  to 
you  the  chance  of  discovering  this  poor  child.  I  will  direct 
my  solicitor  to  take  the  right  steps  to  do  so.  I  will  see  that 
she  is  safe  from  the  ills  you  feel  for  her.  Lionel,  more  still, 
I  am  impatient  till  I  write  to  Mrs.  Haughton.  I  did  her 
wrong.  Remember,  I  have  never  seen  her.  I  resented  in 
her  the  cause  of  my  quarrel  with  your  father,  who  was  once 
dear  to  me.  Enough  of  that.  I  disliked  the  tone  of  her 
letters  to  me.  I  disliked  it  in  the  mother  of  a  boy  who  had 
Darrell  blood;  other  reasons  too,  —  let  them  pass.  But  in  pro- 
viding for  your  education,  I  certainly  thought  her  relations 
provided  for  her  support.  She  never  asked  me  for  help  there ; 
and,  judging  of  her  hastily,  I  thought  she  would  not  have 
scrupled  to  do  so,  if  my  help  there  had  not  been  forestalled. 
You  have  made  me  understand  her  better;  and,  at  all  events, 
three-fourths  of  what  we  are  in  boyhood  most  of  us  owe  to 
our  mothers !  You  are  frank,  fearless,  affectionate,  a  gentle- 
man. I  respect  the  mother  who  has  such  a  son." 

Certainly  praise  was  rare  upon  Darrell's  lips ;  but  when  he 
did  praise,  he  knew  how  to  do  it!  And  no  man  will  ever 
command  others  who  has  not  by  nature  that  gift !  It  cannot 
be  learned.  Art  and  experience  can  only  refine  its  expression. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HE  who  sees  his  heir  in  his  own  child,  carries  his  eye  over  hopes  and  posses- 
sions lying  far  beyond  his  gravestone,  viewing  his  life,  even  here,  as  a 
period  but  closed  with  a  comma.  He  who  sees  his  heir  in  another  man's 
child,  sees  the  full  stop  at  the  end  of  the  sentence. 

LIONEL'S  departure  was  indefinitely  postponed;  nothing 
more  was  said  of  it.  Meanwhile  Darrell's  manner  towards 
him  underwent  a  marked  change.  The  previous  indifference 


136  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  rich  kinsman  had  hitherto  shown  as  to  the  boy's  past  life, 
and  the  peculiarities  of  his  intellect  and  character,  wholly 
vanished.  He  sought  now,  on  the  contrary,  to  plumb  thor- 
oughly the  more  hidden  depths  which  lurk  in  the  nature  of 
every  human  being,  and  which,  in  Lionel,  were  the  more  diffi- 
cult to  discern  from  the  vivacity  and  candour  which  covered 
with  so  smooth  and  charming  a  surface  a  pride  tremulously 
sensitive,  and  an  ambition  that  startled  himself  in  the  hours 
when  solitude  and  revery  reflect  upon  the  visions  of  youth 
the  giant  outline  of  its  own  hopes. 

Darrell  was  not  dissatisfied  with  the  results  of  his  survey; 
yet  often,  when  perhaps  most  pleased,  a  shade  would  pass 
over  his  countenance ;  and  had  a  woman  who  loved  him  been 
by  to  listen,  she  would  have  heard  the  short  slight  sigh  which 
came  and  went  too  quickly  for  the  duller  sense  of  man's 
friendship  to  recognize  it  as  the  sound  of  sorrow. 

In  Darrell  himself,  thus  insensibly  altered,  Lionel  daily 
discovered  more  to  charm  his  interest  and  deepen  his  affec- 
tion. In  this  man's  nature  there  were,  indeed,  such  won- 
drous under-currents  of  sweetness,  so  suddenly  gushing  forth, 
so  suddenly  vanishing  again!  And  exquisite  in  him  were  the 
traits  of  that  sympathetic  tact  which  the  world  calls  fine 
breeding,  but  which  comes  only  from  a  heart  at  once  chival- 
rous and  tender,  the  more  bewitching  in  Darrell  from  their 
contrast  with  a  manner  usually  cold,  and  a  bearing  so 
stamped  with  masculine,  self-willed,  haughty  power.  Thus 
days  went  on  as  if  Lionel  had  become  a  very  child  of  the 
house.  But  his  sojourn  was  in  truth  drawing  near  to  a  close 
not  less  abrupt  and  unexpected  than  the  turn  in  his  host's 
humours  to  which  he  owed  the  delay  of  his  departure. 

One  bright  afternoon,  as  Darrell  was  standing  at  the  win- 
dow of  his  private  study,  Fairthorn,  who  had  crept  in  on 
some  matter  of  business,  looked  at  his  countenance  long  and 
wistfully,  and  then,  shambling  up  to  his  side,  put  one  hand 
on  his  shoulder  with  a  light  timid  touch,  and,  pointing  with 
the  other  to  Lionel,  who  was  lying  on  the  grass  in  front  of 
the  casement  reading  the  "Faerie  Queene,"  said,  "Why  do 
you  take  him  to  your  heart  if  he  does  not  comfort  it?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  1ST 

Darrell  winced  and  answered  gently,  "  I  did  not  know  you 
were  in  the  room.  Poor  Fairthorn;  thank  you!" 

"  Thank  me !  —  what  for?  " 

"For  a  kind  thought.     So,  then,  you  like  the  boy?" 

"Mayn't  I  like  him?"  asked  Fairthorn,  looking  rather 
frightened ;  "  surely  you  do !  " 

"Yes,  I  like  him  much;  I  am  trying  my  best  to  love  him. 
But,  but"  —  Darrell  turned  quickly,  and  the  portrait  of  his 
father  over  the  mantelpiece  came  full  upon  his  sight, — an  im- 
pressive, a  haunting  face, —  sweet  and  gentle,  yet  with  the 
high  narrow  brow  and  arched  nostril  of  pride,  with  restless 
melancholy  eyes,  and  an  expression  that  revealed  the  delicacy 
of  intellect,  but  not  its  power.  There  was  something  forlorn, 
but  imposing,  in  the  whole  effigy.  As  you  continued  to  look 
at  the  countenance,  the  mournful  attraction  grew  upon  you. 
Truly  a  touching  and  a  most  lovable  aspect.  Darrell  'a  eyes 
moistened. 

"  Yes,  my  father,  it  is  so !  "  he  said  softly.  "  All  my  sac- 
rifices were  in  vain.  The  race  is  not  to  be  rebuilt!  No 
grandchild  of  yours  will  succeed  me, —  me,  the  last  of  the  old 
line!  Fairthorn,  how  can  I  love  that  boy?  He  may  be  my 
heir,  and  in  his  veins  not  a  drop  of  my  father's  blood!  " 

"But  he  has  the  blood  of  your  father's  ancestors;  and  why 
must  you  think  of  him  as  your  heir?  —  you,  who,  if  you  would 
but  go  again  into  the  world,  might  yet  find  a  fair  wi  —  " 

With  such  a  stamp  came  Darrell's  foot  upon  the  floor  that 
the  holy  and  conjugal  monosyllable  dropping  from  Fairthorn's 
lips  was  as  much  cut  in  two  as  if  a  shark  had  snapped  it.  Un- 
speakably frightened,  the  poor  man  sidled  away,  thrust  him- 
self behind  a  tall  reading-desk,  and,  peering  aslant  from  that 
covert,  whimpered  out,  "Don't,  don't  now,  don't  be  so  awful; 
I  did  not  mean  to  offend,  but  I  'm  always  saying  something 
I  did  not  mean;  and  really  you  look  so  young  still  "(coaxingly), 
"and,  and  —  " 

Darrell,  the  burst  of  rage  over,  had  sunk  upon  a  chair,  his 
face  bowed  over  his  hands,  and  his  breast  heaving  as  if  with 
suppressed  sobs. 

The  musician  forgot  his  fear;  he  sprang  forward,  almost 


138  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

upsetting  the  tall  desk;  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  at  Dar- 
rell's  feet,  and  exclaimed  in  broken  words,  "Master,  master, 
forgive  me!  Beast  that  I  was  !  Do  look  up  —  do  smile  or 
else  beat  me  —  kick  me." 

Darrell's  right  hand  slid  gently  from  his  face,  and  fell  into 
Fairthorn's  clasp. 

"Hush,  hush,"  muttered  the  man  of  granite;  "one  moment, 
and  it  will  be  over." 

One  moment!  That  might  be  but  a  figure  of  speech;  yet 
before  Lionel  had  finished  half  the  canto  that  was  plunging 
him  into  fairyland,  Darrell  was  standing  by  him  with  his  or- 
dinary tranquil  mien;  and  Fairthorn's  flute  from  behind  the 
boughs  of  a  neighbouring  lime-tree  was  breathing  out  an  air 
as  dulcet  as  if  careless  Fauns  still  piped  in  Arcady,  and  Grief 
were  a  far  dweller  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,  of 
whom  shepherds,  reclining  under  summer  leaves,  speak  as  we 
speak  of  hydras  and  unicorns,  and  things  in  fable. 

On,  on  swelled  the  mellow,  mellow,  witching  music;  and 
now  the  worn  man  with  his  secret  sorrow,  and  the  boy  with 
his  frank  glad  laugh,  are  passing  away,  side  by  side,  over 
the  turf,  with  its  starry  and  golden  wild-flowers,  under  the 
boughs  in  yon  Druid  copse,  from  which  they  start  the  ring- 
dove,—  farther  and  farther,  still  side  by  side,  now  out  of 
sight,  as  if  the  dense  green  of  the  summer  had  closed  around 
them  like  waves.  But  still  the  flute  sounds  on,  and  still 
they  hear  it,  softer  and  softer  as  they  go.  Hark !  do  you  not 
hear  it — you? 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  139 


;  CHAPTEE  XIV. 

THERE  are  certain  events  which  to  each  man's  life  are  as  comets  to  the 
earth,  seemingly  strange  and  erratic  portents  ;  distinct  from  the  ordinary 
lights  which  guide  our  course  and  mark  our  seasons,  yet  true  to  their  own 
laws,  potent  in  their  own  influences.  Philosophy  speculates  on  their  effects, 
and  disputes  upon  their  uses ;  men  who  do  not  philosophize  regard  them 
as  special  messengers  and  bodes  of  evil. 

THEY  came  out  of  the  little  park  into  a  by -lane;  a  vast  tract 
of  common  land,  yellow  with  furze  and  undulated  with  swell 
and  hollow,  spreading  in  front;  to  their  right  the  dark  beech- 
woods,  still  beneath  the  weight  of  the  July  noon.  Lionel 
had  been  talking  about  the  "Faerie  Queene,"  knight-errantry, 
the  sweet  impossible  dream-life  that,  safe  from  Time,  glides 
by  bower  and  hall,  through  magic  forests  and  by  witching 
caves  in  the  world  of  poet-books.  And  Darrell  listened,  and 
the  flute-notes  mingled  with  the  atmosphere  faint  and  far  off, 
like  voices  from  that  world  itself. 

Out  then  they  came,  this  broad  waste  land  before  them; 
and  Lionel  said  merrily,  — 

"But  this  is  the  very  scene!  Here  the  young  knight,  leav- 
ing his  father's  hall,  would  have  checked  his  destrier,  glanc- 
ing wistfully  now  over  that  green  wild  which  seems  so 
boundless,  now  to  the  'umbrageous  horror '  of  those  breathless 
woodlands,  and  questioned  himself  which  way  to  take  for 
adventure." 

"Yes,"  said  Darrell,  coming  out  from  his  long  reserve  on 
all  that  concerned  his  past  life, —  "Yes,  and  the  gold  of  the 
gorse-blossoms  tempted  me;  and  I  took  the  waste  land."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  renewed:  "And  then,  when  I  had 
known  cities  and  men,  and  snatched  romance  from  dull 
matter-of-fact,  then  I  would  have  done  as  civilization  does 
with  romance  itself, —  I  would  have  enclosed  the  waste  land 
for  my  own  aggrandizement.  Look,"  he  continued,  with  a 


140  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

sweep  of  the  hand  round  the  width  of  prospect,  "  all  that  you 
see  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  some  fourteen  years  ago,  was 
to  have  been  thrown  into  the  pretty  paddock  we  have  just 
quitted,  and  serve  as  park  round  the  house  I  was  then  build- 
ing. Vanity  of  human  wishes!  What  but  the  several  pro- 
portions of  their  common  folly  distinguishes  the  baffled  squire 
from  the  arrested  conqueror?  Man's  characteristic  cerebral 
organ  must  certainly  be  acquisitiveness." 

"  Was  it  his  organ  of  acquisitiveness  that  moved  Themis- 
tocles  to  boast  that  'he  could  make  a  small  state  great '?" 

"Well  remembered, —  ingeniously  quoted,"  returned  Dar- 
rell,  with  the  polite  bend  of  his  stately  head.  "Yes,  I 
suspect  that  the  coveting  organ  had  much  to  do  with  the 
boast.  To  build  a  name  was  the  earliest  dream  of  Theinisto- 
cles,  if  we  are  to  accept  the  anecdote  that  makes  him  say, 
'The  trophies  of  Miltiades  would  not  suffer  him  to  sleep.' 
To  build  a  name,  or  to  create  a  fortune,  are  but  varying  appli- 
cations of  one  human  passion.  The  desire  of  something  we 
have  not  is  the  first  of  our  childish  remembrances :  it  matters 
not  what  form  it  takes,  what  object  it  longs  for;  still  it  is  to 
acquire!  it  never  deserts  us  while  we  live." 

"  And  yet,  if  I  might,  I  should  like  to  ask,  what  you  now 
desire  that  you  do  not  possess?" 

"I  —  nothing;  but  I  spoke  of  the  living!  I  am  dead. 
Only,"  added  Darrell,  with  his  silvery  laugh,  "I  say,  as  poor 
Chesterfield  said  before  me,  '  It  is  a  secret :  keep  it. ' " 

Lionel  made  no  reply;  the  melancholy  of  the  words  sad- 
dened him :  but  Darrell's  manner  repelled  the  expression  of 
sympathy  or  of  interest;  and  the  boy  fell  into  conjecture, — 
what  had  killed  to  the  world  this  man's  intellectual  life? 

And  thus  silently  they  continued  to  wander  on  till  the 
sound  of  the  flute  had  long  been  lost  to  their  ears.  Was  the 
musician  playing  still? 

At  length  they  came  round  to  the  other  end  of  Fawley  vil- 
lage, and  Darrell  again  became  animated. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  returning  to  the  subject  of  talk  that 
had  been  abruptly  suspended, —  "perhaps  the  love  of  power 
is  at  the  origin  of  each  restless  courtship  of  Fortune:  yet, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  141 

after  all,  who  has  power  with  less  alloy  than  the  village 
thane?  With  so  little  effort,  so  little  thought,  the  man  in 
the  manor-house  can  make  men  in  the  cottage  happier  here 
below  and  more  fit  for  a  hereafter  yonder.  In  leaving  the 
world  I  come  from  contest  and  pilgrimage,  like  our  sires  the 
Crusaders,  to  reign  at  home." 

As  he  spoke,  he  entered  one  of  the  cottages.  An  old  par- 
alytic man  was  seated  by  the  fire,  hot  though  the  July  sun 
was  out  of  doors ;  and  his  wife,  of  the  same  age,  and  almost 
as  helpless,  was  reading  to  him  a  chapter  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment,—  the  fifth  chapter  in  Genesis,  containing  the  geneal- 
ogy, age,  and  death  of  the  patriarchs  before  the  Flood.  How 
the  faces  of  the  couple  brightened  when  Darrell  entered. 
"  Master  Guy ! "  said  the  old  man,  tremulously  rising.  The 
world-weary  orator  and  lawyer  was  still  Master  Guy  to  him. 

"Sit  down,  Matthew,  and  let  me  read  you  a  chapter." 
Darrell  took  the  Holy  Book,  and  read  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.  Never  had  Lionel  heard  anything  like  that  reading; 
the  feeling  which  brought  out  the  depth  of  the  sense,  the 
tones,  sweeter  than  the  flute,  which  clothed  the  divine  words 
in  music.  As  Darrell  ceased,  some  beauty  seemed  gone  from 
the  day.  He  lingered  a  few  minutes,  talking  kindly  and  fa- 
miliarly, and  then  turned  into  another  cottage,  where  lay  a 
sick  woman.  He  listened  to  her  ailments,  promised  to  send 
her  something  to  do  her  good  from  his  own  stores,  cheered  up 
her  spirits,  and,  leaving  her  happy,  turned  to  Lionel  with  a 
glorious  smile,  that  seemed  to  ask,  "  And  is  there  not  power 
in  this?  " 

But  it  was  the  sad  peculiarity  of  this  remarkable  man  that 
all  his  moods  were  subject  to  rapid  and  seemingly  unaccount- 
able variations.  It  was  as  if  some  great  blow  had  fallen  on 
the  mainspring  of  his  organization,  and  left  its  original  har- 
mony broken  up  into  fragments  each  impressive  in  itself,  but 
running  one  into  the  other  with  an  abrupt  discord,  as  a  harp 
played  upon  by  the  winds.  For,  after  this  evident  effort  at 
self-consolation  or  self-support  in  soothing  or  strengthening 
others,  suddenly  Darrell 's  head  fell  again  upon  his  breast, 
and  he  walked  on,  up  the  village  lane,  heeding  no  longer 


142  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

either  the  open  doors  of  expectant  cottagers  or  the  salutation 
of  humble  passers-by.  "And  I  could  have  been  so  happy 
here!"  he  said  suddenly.  "Can  I  not  be  so  yet?  Ay,  per- 
haps, when  I  am  thoroughly  old, — tied  to  the  world  but  by 
the  thread  of  an  hour.  Old  men  do  seem  happy;  behind 
them,  all  memories  faint,  save  those  of  childhood  and  sprightly 
youth;  before  them,  the  narrow  ford,  and  the  sun  dawning 
up  through  the  clouds  on  the  other  shore.  'T  is  the  critical 
descent  into  age  in  which  man  is  surely  most  troubled ;  griefs 
gone,  still  rankling;  nor  —  strength  yet  in  his  limbs,  passion 
yet  in  his  heart  —  reconciled  to  what  loom  nearest  in  the 
prospect, — the  armchair  and  the  palsied  head.  Well!  life  is 
a  quaint  puzzle.  Bits  the  most  incongruous  join  into  each 
other,  and  the  scheme  thus  gradually  becomes  symmetrical 
and  clear;  when,  lo!  as  the  infant  claps  his  hands  and  cries, 
'See!  see!  the  puzzle  is  made  out! '  all  the  pieces  are  swept 
back  into  the  box, — black  box  with  the  gilded  nails.  Ho! 
Lionel,  look  up;  there  is  our  village  church,  and  here,  close 
at  my  right,  the  churchyard ! " 

Now  while  Darrell  and  his  young  companion  were  directing 
their  gaze  to  the  right  of  the  village  lane,  towards  the  small 
gray  church, — towards  the  sacred  burial-ground  in  which, 
here  and  there  amongst  humbler  graves,  stood  the  "monu- 
mental stone  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  some  former  Dar- 
rell, for  whose  remains  the  living  sod  had  been  preferred  to 
the  family  vault ;  while  both  slowly  neared  the  funeral  spot, 
and  leaned,  silent  and  musing,  over  the  rail  that  fenced  it 
from  the  animals  turned  to  graze  on  the  sward  of  the  sur- 
rounding green, — a  foot-traveller,  a  stranger  in  the  place, 
loitered  on  the  threshold  of  the  small  wayside  inn,  about  fifty 
yards  off  to  the  left  of  the  lane,  and  looked  hard  at  the  still 
figures  of  the  two  kinsmen. 

Turning  then  to  the  hostess,  who  was  standing  somewhat 
within  the  threshold,  a  glass  of  brandy -and- water  in  her 
hand,  the  third  glass  that  stranger  had  called  for  during  his 
half  hour's  rest  in  the  hostelry,  quoth  the  man, — 

"  The  taller  gentleman  yonder  is  surely  your  squire,  is  he 
not?  but  who  is  the  shorter  and  younger  person?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  143 

The  landlady  put  forth  her  head. 

"  Oh !  that  is  a  relation  of  the  squire  down  on  a  visit,  sir. 
I  heard  coachman  say  that  the  squire  's  taken  to  him  hugely ; 
and  they  do  think  at  the  Hall  that  the  young  gentleman  will 
be  his  heir." 

"Aha!  —  indeed  —  his  heir!  What  is  the  lad's  name? 
What  relation  can  he  be  to  Mr.  Darrell?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  relation  exactly,  sir ;  but  he  is  one  of 
the  Haughtons,  and  they  've  been  kin  to  the  Fawley  folks 
time  out  of  mind." 

"Haughton?  —  aha!  Thank  you,  ma'am.  Change,  if  you 
please." 

The  stranger  tossed  off  his  dram,  and  stretched  his  hand 
for  his  change. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  this  must  be  forring  money,"  said  the 
landlady,  turning  a  five-franc  piece  on  her  palm  with  sus- 
picious curiosity. 

"Foreign!  Is  it  possible?"  The  stranger  dived  again  into 
his  pocket,  and  apparently  with  some  difficulty  hunted  out 
half-a-crown. 

"Sixpence  more,  if  you  please,  sir;  three  brandies,  and 
bread-and-cheese  and  the  ale  too,  sir." 

"  How  stupid  I  am !  I  thought  that  French  coin  was  a  five- 
shilling  piece.  I  fear  I  have  no  English  money  about  me  but 
this  half-crown;  and  I  can't  ask  you  to  trust  me,  as  you  don't 
know  me." 

"  Oh,  sir,  Jt  is  all  one  if  you  know  the  squire.  You  may  be 
passing  this  way  again." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  my  debt  when  I  do,  you  may  be  sure, " 
said  the  stranger;  and,  with  a  nod,  he  walked  away  in  the 
same  direction  as  Darrell  and  Lionel  had  already  taken, — 
through  a  turnstile  by  a  public  path  that,  skirting  the  church- 
yard and  the  neighbouring  parsonage,  led  along  a  cornfield 
to  the  demesnes  of  Fawley. 

The  path  was  narrow,  the  com  rising  on  either  side,  so 
that  two  persons  could  not  well  walk  abreast.  Lionel  was 
some  paces  in  advance,  Darrell  walking  slow.  The  stranger 
followed  at  a  distance :  once  or  twice  he  quickened  his  pace, 


144  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

as  if  resolved  to  overtake  Darrell ;  then  apparently  his  mind 
misgave  him,  and  he  again  fell  back. 

There  was  something  furtive  and  sinister  about  the  man. 
Little  could  be  seen  of  his  face,  for  he  wore  a  large  hat  of 
foreign  make,  slouched  deep  over  his  brow,  and  his  lips  and 
jaw  were  concealed  by  a  dark  and  full  mustache  and  beard. 
As  much  of  the  general  outline  of  the  countenance  as  remained 
distinguishable  was  nevertheless  decidedly  handsome;  but  a 
complexion  naturally  rich  in  colour  seemed  to  have  gained 
the  heated  look  which  comes  with  the  earlier  habits  of  intem- 
perance before  it  fades  into  the  leaden  hues  of  the  later. 

His  dress  bespoke  pretension  to  a  certain  rank:  but  its 
component  parts  were  strangely  ill-assorted,  out  of  date,  and 
out  of  repair;  pearl-coloured  trousers,  with  silk  braids  down 
their  sides;  brodequins  to  match, — Parisian  fashion  three 
years  back,  but  the  trousers  shabby,  the  braiding  discoloured, 
the  brodequins  in  holes.  The  coat  —  once  a  black  evening 
dress-coat  —  of  a  cut  a  year  or  two  anterior  to  that  of  the 
trousers;  satin  facing, —  cloth  napless,  satin  stained.  Over 
all,  a  sort  of  summer  travelling-cloak,  or  rather  large  cape  of 
a  waterproof  silk,  once  the  extreme  mode  with  the  lions  of 
the  Chaussee  d'Antin  whenever  they  ventured  to  rove  to 
Swiss  cantons  or  German  spas;  but  which,  from  a  certain 
dainty  effeminacy  in  its  shape  and  texture,  required  the 
minutest  elegance  in  the  general  costume  of  its  wearer  as 
well  as  the  cleanliest  purity  in  itself.  Worn  by  this  trav- 
eller, and  well-nigh  worn  out  too,  the  cape  became  a  finery 
mournful  as  a  tattered  pennon  over  a  wreck. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  dress,  however  unbecoming,  shabby, 
obsolete,  a  second  glance  could  scarcely  fail  to  note  the 
wearer  as  a  man  wonderfully  well-shaped, —  tall,  slender  in 
the  waist,  long  of  limb,  but  with  a  girth  of  chest  that  showed 
immense  power;  one  of  those  rare  figures  that  a  female  eye 
would  admire  for  grace,  a  recruiting  sergeant  for  athletic 
strength. 

But  still  the  man's  whole  bearing  and  aspect,  even  apart 
from  the  dismal  incongruities  of  his  attire,  which  gave  him 
the  air  of  a  beggared  spendthrift,  marred  the  favourable  effect 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  145 

that  physical  comeliness  in  itself  produces.  Difficult  to 
describe  how, —  difficult  to  say  why, — but  there  is  a  look 
which  a  man  gets,  and  a  gait  which  he  contracts  when  the 
rest  of  mankind  cut  him;  and  this  man  had  that  look  and 
that  gait. 

"So,  so,"  muttered  the  stranger.  "That  boy  his  heir?  — 
so,  so.  How  can  I  get  to  speak  to  him?  In  his  own  house  he 
would  not  see  me:  it  must  be  as  now,  in  the  open  air;  but 
how  catch  him  alone?  and  to  lurk  in  the  inn,  in  his  own  vil- 
lage,—  perhaps  for  a  day, — to  watch  an  occasion;  impossible! 
Besides,  where  is  the  money  for  it?  Courage,  courage!  "  He 
quickened  his  pace,  pushed  back  his  hat.  "Courage!  Why 
not  now?  Now  or  never!  " 

While  the  man  thus  mutteringly  soliloquized,  Lionel  had 
reached  the  gate  which  opened  into  the  grounds  of  Fawley, 
just  in  the  rear  of  the  little  lake.  Over  the  gate  he  swung 
himself  lightly,  and,  turning  back  to  Darrell  cried,  "  Here  is 
the  doe  waiting  to  welcome  you." 

Just  as  Darrell,  scarcely  heeding  the  exclamation,  and  with 
his  musing  eyes  on  the  ground,  approached  the  gate,  a  respect- 
ful hand  opened  it  wide,  a  submissive  head  bowed  low,  a 
voice  artificially  soft  faltered  forth  words,  broken  and  indis- 
tinct, but  of  which  those  most  audible  were  —  "  Pardon  me ; 
something  to  communicate, — important;  hear  me." 

Darrell  started,  just  as  the  traveller  almost  touched  him, — 
started,  recoiled,  as  one  on  whose  path  rises  a  wild  beast. 
His  bended  head  became  erect,  haughty,  indignant,  defying; 
but  his  cheek  was  pale,  and  his  lip  quivered.  "You  here! 
You  in  England  —  at  Fawley!  You  presume  to  accost  me! 
You,  sir, —  you!" 

Lionel  just  caught  the  sound  of  the  voice  as  the  doe  had 
come  timidly  up  to  him.  He  turned  round  sharply,  and  be- 
held Darrell 's  stern,  imperious  countenance,  on  which,  stern 
and  imperious  though  it  was,  a  hasty  glance  could  discover, 
at  once,  a  surprise  that  almost  bordered  upon  fear.  Of  the 
stranger  still  holding  the  gate  he  saw  but  the  back,  and  his 
voice  he  did  not  hear,  though  by  the  man's  gesture  he  was 
evidently  replying.  Lionel  paused  a  moment  irresolute ;  but 

VOL.  I. 10 


146  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

as  the  man  continued  to  speak,  he  saw  Darrell's  face  grow 
paler  and  paler,  and  in  the  impulse  of  a  vague  alarm  he  has- 
tened towards  him;  but  just  within  three  feet  of  the  spot, 
Darrell  arrested  his  steps. 

"  Go  home,  Lionel ;  this  person  would  speak  to  me  in  pri- 
vate." Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he  said  to  the  stranger,  "Close 
the  gate,  sir;  you  are  standing  upon  the  land  of  my  fathers. 
If  you  would  speak  with  me,  this  way ; "  and,  brushing 
through  the  corn,  Darrell  strode  towards  a  patch  of  waste 
land  that  adjoined  the  field :  the  man  followed  him,  and  both 
passed  from  Lionel's  eyes.  The  doe  had  come  to  the  gate  to 
greet  her  master;  she  now  rested  her  nostrils  on  the  bar,  with 
a  look  disappointed  and  plaintive. 

"Come,"  said  Lionel,  "come."     The  doe  would  not  stir. 

So  the  boy  walked  on  alone,  not  much  occupied  with  what 
had  just  passed.  "  Doubtless, "  thought  he,  "  some  person  in 
the  neighbourhood  upon  country  business." 

He  skirted  the  lake,  and  seated  himself  on  a  garden  bench 
near  the  house.  What  did  he  there  think  of?  —  who  knows? 
Perhaps  of  the  Great  World ;  perhaps  of  little  Sophy !  Time 
fled  on :  the  sun  was  receding  in  the  west  when  Darrell  hur- 
ried past  him  without  speaking,  and  entered  the  house. 

The  host  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  nor  all  that  evening. 
Mr.  Mills  made  an  excuse:  Mr.  Darrell  did  not  feel  very 
well. 

Fairthorn  had  Lionel  all  to  himself,  and  having  within  the 
last  few  days  reindulged  in  open  cordiality  to  the  young  guest, 
he  was  especially  communicative  that  evening.  He  talked 
much  on  Darrell,  and  with  all  the  affection  that,  in  spite  of 
his  fear,  the  poor  flute-player  felt  for  his  ungracious  patron. 
He  told  many  anecdotes  of  the  stern  man's  tender  kindness 
to  all  that  came  within  its  sphere.  He  told  also  anecdotes 
more  striking  of  the  kind  man's  sternness  where  some  obsti- 
nate prejudice,  some  ruling  passion,  made  him  "granite." 

"Lord,  my  dear  young  sir,"  said  Fairthorn,  "be  his  most 
bitter  open  enemy,  and  fall  down  in  the  mire,  the  first  hand 
to  help  you  would  be  Guy  Darrell's;  but  be  his  professed 
friend,  and  betray  him  to  the  worth  of  a  straw,  and  never 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  147 

try  to  see  his  face  again  if  you  are  wise, —  the  most  forgiving 
and  the  least  forgiving  of  human  beings.     But  —  " 

The  study  door  noiselessly  opened,   and  Darrell's  voice 
called  out,  "Fairthorn,  let  me  speak  with  you." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EVERT  street  has  two  sides,  the  shady  side  and  the  sunny.  When  two  men 
shake  hands  and  part,  mark  which  of  the  two  takes  the  sunny  side :  he 
will  be  the  younger  man  of  the  two. 

THE  next  morning,  neither  Darrell  nor  Fairthorn  appeared 
at  breakfast ;  but  as  soon  as  Lionel  had  concluded  that  meal, 
Mr.  Mills  informed  him,  with  customary  politeness,  that  Mr. 
Darrell  wished  to  speak  with  him  in  the  study.  Study,  across 
the  threshold  of  which  Lionel  had  never  yet  set  footstep! 
He  entered  it  now  with  a  sentiment  of  mingled  curiosity  and 
awe.  Nothing  in  it  remarkable,  save  the  portrait  of  the 
host's  father  over  the  mantelpiece.  Books  strewed  tables, 
chairs,  and  floors  in  the  disorder  loved  by  habitual  students. 
Near  the  window  was  a  glass  bowl  containing  gold-fish,  and 
close  by,  in  its  cage,  a  singing-bird.  Darrell  might  exist 
without  companionship  in  the  human  species,  but  not  with- 
out something  which  he  protected  and  cherished, — a  bird, 
even  a  fish. 

Darrell  looked  really  ill :  his  keen  eye  was  almost  dim,  and 
the  lines  in  his  face  seemed  deeper.  But  he  spoke  with  his 
usual  calm,  passionless  melody  of  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Lionel's  really  anxious  in- 
quiry; "I  am  ill.  Idle  persons  like  me  give  way  to  illness. 
When  I  was  a  busy  man,  I  never  did ;  and  then  illness  gave 
way  to  me.  My  general  plans  are  thus,  if  not  actually  al- 
tered, at  least  hurried  to  their  consummation  sooner  than  I 
expected.  Before  you  came  here,  I  told  you  to  come  soon,  or 
you  might  not  find  me.  I  meant  to  go  abroad  this  summer; 


148  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

I  shall  now  start  at  once.  I  need  the  change  of  scene  and 
air.  You  will  return  to  London  to-day." 

"To-day!     You  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

"  Angry !  boy  and  cousin  —  no !  "  resumed  Darrell,  in  a  tone 
of  unusual  tenderness.  "  Angry  —  fie !  But  since  the  parting 
must  be,  't  is  well  to  abridge  the  pain  of  long  farewell.  You 
must  wish,  too,  to  see  your  mother,  and  thank  her  for  rearing 
you  up  so  that  you  may  step  from  poverty  into  ease  with  a 
head  erect.  You  will  give  to  Mrs.  Haughton  this  letter :  for 
yourself,  your  inclinations  seem  to  tend  towards  the  army. 
But  before  you  decide  on  that  career,  I  should  like  you  to  see 
something  more  of  the  world.  Call  to-morrow  on  Colonel 
Morley,  in  Curzon  Street:  this  is  his  address.  He  will  re- 
ceive by  to-day's  post  a  note  from  me,  requesting  him  to  ad- 
vise you.  Follow  his  counsels  in  what  belongs  to  the  world. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  world, —  a  distant  connection  of  mine, — 
who  will  be  kind  to  you  for  my  sake.  Is  there  more  to  say? 
Yes.  It  seems  an  ungracious  speech;  but  I  should  speak  it. 
Consider  yourself  sure  from  me  of  an  independent  income. 
Never  let  idle  sycophants  lead  you  into  extravagance  by  tell- 
ing you  that  you  will  have  more.  But  indulge  not  the  expec- 
tation, however  plausible,  that  you  will  be  my  heir." 

"Mr.  Darrell  — oh,  sir  —  " 

"  Hush !  the  expectation  would  be  reasonable ;  but  I  am  a 
strange  being.  I  might  marry  again, —  have  heirs  of  my 
own.  Eh,  sir, —  why  not?"  Darrell  spoke  these  last  words 
almost  fiercely,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Lionel  as  he  repeated, 

—  "Why  not?"     But  seeing  that  the  boy's  face  evinced  no 
surprise,  the  expression  of  his  own  relaxed,  and  he  continued 
calmly, —  "Enough;  what  I  have  thus  rudely  said  was  kindly 
meant.     It  is  a  treason  to  a  young  man  to  let  him  count  on 
a  fortune  which  at  last  is  left  away  from  him.     Now,  Lionel, 
go ;  enjoy  your  spring  of  life !    Go,  hopeful  and  light-hearted. 
If  sorrow  reach  you,  battle   with  it;  if  error  mislead  you, 
come  fearlessly  to  me  for  counsel.     Why,  boy,  what  is  this? 

—  tears?    Tut,  tut." 

"It  is  your  goodness,"  faltered  Lionel.  "I  cannot  help  it. 
And  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you  in  return?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  149 

"Yes,  much.  Keep  your  name  free  from  stain,  and  your 
heart  open  to  such  noble  emotions  as  awaken  tears  like  those. 
Ah,  by  the  by,  I  heard  from  my  lawyer  to-day  about  your 
poor  little  prot&gie.  Not  found  yet,  but  he  seems  sanguine 
of  quick  success.  You  shall  know  the  moment  I  hear  more." 

"You  will  write  to  me,  then,  sir,  and  I  may  write  to  you?" 

"As  often  as  you  please.     Always  direct  to  me  here." 

"  Shall  you  be  long  abroad?  " 

Darrell's  brows  met.  "I  don't  know,"  said  he,  curtly. 
"Adieu." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

Lionel  looked  at  him  with  wistful  yearning,  filial  affection, 
through  his  swimming  eyes.  "God  bless  you,  sir,"  he 
murmured  simply,  and  passed  away. 

"  That  blessing  should  have  come  from  me ! "  said  Darrell 
to  himself,  as  he  turned  back,  and  stood  on  his  solitary 
hearth.  "  But  they  on  whose  heads  I  once  poured  a  blessing, 
where  are  they, — where?  And  that  man's  tale,  reviving  the 
audacious  fable  which  the  other,  and  I  verily  believe  the  less 
guilty  knave  of  the  two,  sought  to  palm  on  me  years  ago! 
Stop;  let  me  weigh  well  what  he  said.  If  it  were  true!  Oh, 
shame,  shame ! " 

Folding  his  arms  tightly  on  his  breast,  Darrell  paced  the 
room  with  slow,  measured  strides,  pondering  deeply.  He 
was,  indeed,  seeking  to  suppress  feeling,  and  to  exercise  only 
judgment;  and  his  reasoning  process  seemed  at  length  fully 
to  satisfy  him,  for  his  countenance  gradually  cleared,  and  a 
triumphant  smile  passed  across  it.  "A  lie, — certainly  a  pal- 
pable and  gross  lie;  lie  it  must  and  shall  be.  Never  will  I 
accept  it  as  truth.  Father  "  (looking  full  at  the  portrait  over 
the  mantel-shelf),  "Father,  fear  not  — never  —  never!" 


BOOK    III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CERTES,  the  lizard  is  a  shy  and  timorous  creature.  He  runs  into  chinks  and 
crannies  if  you  come  too  near  to  him,  and  sheds  his  very  tail  for  fear,  if 
yon  catch  it  by  the  tip.  He  has  not  his  being  in  good  society  :  no  one 
cages  him,  no  one  pets.  He  is  an  idle  vagrant.  But  when  he  steals 
through  the  green  herbage,  and  basks  unmolested  in  the  sun,  he  crowds 
perhaps  as  much  enjoyment  into  one  summer  hour  as  a  parrot,  however 
pampered  and  erudite,  spreads  over  a  whole  drawing-room  life  spent  in 
saying  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  and  "  Pretty  Poll." 

ON  that  dull  and  sombre  summer  morning  in  which  the 
grandfather  and  grandchild  departed  from  the  friendly  roof 
of  Mr.  Merle,  very  dull  and  very  sombre  were  the  thoughts 
of  little  Sophy.  She  walked  slowly  behind  the  gray  cripple, 
who  had  need  to  lean  so  heavily  on  his  staff,  and  her  eye  had 
not  even  a  smile  for  the  golden  buttercups  that  glittered  on 
dewy  meads  alongside  the  barren  road. 

Thus  had  they  proceeded  apart  and  silent  till  they  had 
passed  the  second  milestone.  There,  Waife,  rousing  from 
his  own  reveries,  which  were  perhaps  yet  more  dreary  than 
those  of  the  dejected  child,  halted  abruptly,  passed  his  hand 
once  or  twice  rapidly  over  his  forehead,  and,  turning  round 
to  Sophy,  looked  into  her  face  with  great  kindness  as  she 
came  slowly  to  his  side. 

"You  are  sad,  little  one?"  said  he. 

"Very  sad,  Grandy." 

"And  displeased  with  me?  Yes,  displeased  that  T  have 
taken  you  suddenly  away  from  the  pretty  young  gentleman, 
who  was  so  kind  to  you,  without  encouraging  the  chance  that 
you  were  to  meet  with  him  again." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  151 

"It  was  not  like  you,  Grandy,"  answered  Sophy;  and  her 
under-lip  slightly  pouted,  while  the  big  tears  swelled  to  her 
eye. 

"True,"  said  the  vagabond;  "anything  resembling  com- 
mon-sense is  not  like  me.  But  don't  you  think  that  I  did 
what  I  felt  was  best  for  you?  Must  I  not  have  some  good 
cause  for  it,  whenever  I  have  the  heart  deliberately  to  vex 
you?" 

Sophy  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it,  but  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  speak,  for  she  felt  that  at  such  effort  she  would 
have  burst  out  into  hearty  crying.  Then  Waife  proceeded  to 
utter  many  of  those  wise  sayings,  old  as  the  hills,  and  as  high 
above  our  sorrows  as  hills  are  from  the  valley  in  which  we 
walk.  He  said  how  foolish  it  was  to  unsettle  the  mind  by 
preposterous  fancies  and  impossible  hopes.  The  pretty  young 
gentleman  could  never  be  anything  to  her,  nor  she  to  the 
pretty  young  gentleman.  It  might  be  very  well  for  the 
pretty  young  gentleman  to  promise  to  correspond  with  her, 
but  as  soon  as  he  returned  to  his  friends  he  would  have  other 
things  to  think  of,  and  she  would  soon  be  forgotten;  while 
she,  on  the  contrary,  would  be  thinking  of  him,  and  the 
Thames  and  the  butterflies,  and  find  hard  life  still  more  irk- 
some. Of  all  this,  and  much  more,  in  the  general  way  of 
consolers  who  set  out  on  the  principle  that  grief  is  a  matter 
of  logic,  did  Gentleman  Waife  deliver  himself  with  a  vigour 
of  ratiocination  which  admitted  of  no  reply,  and  conveyed  not 
a  particle  of  comfort.  And  feeling  this,  that  great  actor  — 
not  that  he  was  acting  then  —  suddenly  stopped,  clasped  the 
child  in  his  arms,  and  murmured  in  broken  accents, —  "But 
if  I  see  you  thus  cast  down,  I  shall  have  no  strength  left  to 
hobble  on  through  the  world;  and  the  sooner  I  lie  down,  and 
the  dust  is  shovelled  over  me,  why,  the  better  for  you;  for 
it  seems  that  Heaven  sends  you  friends,  and  I  tear  you  from 
them." 

And  then  Sophy  fairly  gave  way  to  her  sobs :  she  twined 
her  little  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck  convulsively,  kissed 
his  rough  face  with  imploring  pathetic  fondness,  and  forced 
out  through  her  tears,  "Don't  talk  so!  I  Ve  been  ungrateful 


152  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

and  wicked.  I  don't  care  for  any  one  but  my  own  dear,  dear 
Grandy." 

After  this  little  scene,  they  both  composed  themselves,  and 
felt  much  lighter  of  heart.  They  pursued  their  journey,  no 
longer  apart,  but  side  by  side,  and  the  old  man  leaning, 
though  very  lightly,  on  the  child's  arm.  But  there  was  no 
immediate  reaction  from  gloom  to  gayety.  Waife  began  talk- 
ing in  softened  undertones,  and  vaguely,  of  his  own  past 
afflictions ;  and  partial  as  was  the  reference,  how  vast  did  the 
old  man's  sorrows  seem  beside  the  child's  regrets;  and  yet  he 
commented  on  them  as  if  rather  in  pitying  her  state  than 
grieving  for  his  own. 

"  Ah,  at  your  age,  my  darling,  I  had  not  your  troubles  and 
hardships.  I  had  not  to  trudge  these  dusty  roads  on  foot 
with  a  broken-down  good-for-nothing  scattering;  I  trod  rich 
carpets,  and  slept  under  silken  curtains.  I  took  the  air  in 
gay  carriages, — I  such  a  scapegrace;  and  you,  little  child, — 
you  so  good!  All  gone,  all  melted  away  from  me,  and  not 
able  now  to  be  sure  that  you  will  have  a  crust  of  bread  this 
day  week." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  shall  have  bread,  and  you  too,  Grandy,"  cried 
Sophy,  with  cheerful  voice.  "  It  was  you  who  taught  me  to 
pray  to  God,  and  said  that  in  all  your  troubles  God  had  been 
good  to  you :  and  He  has  been  so  good  to  me  since  I  prayed  to 
Him ;  for  I  have  no  dreadful  Mrs.  Crane  to  beat  me  now,  and 
say  things  more  hard  to  bear  than  beating;  and  you  have 
taken  me  to  yourself.  How  I  prayed  for  that!  And  I  take 
care  of  you  too,  Grandy, — don't  I?  I  prayed  for  that  too; 
and  as  to  carriages, "  added  Sophy,  with  superb  air,  "  I  don't 
care  if  I  am  never  in  a  carriage  as  long  as  I  live;  and  you 
know  I  have  been  in  a  van,  which  is  bigger  than  a  carriage, 
and  I  did  n't  like  that  at  all.  But  how  came  people  to  behave 
so  ill  to  you,  Grandy?  " 

"I  never  said  people  behaved  ill  to  me,  Sophy." 

"  Did  not  they  take  away  the  carpets  and  silk  curtains,  and 
all  the  fine  things  you  had  as  a  little  boy?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Waife,  with  a  puzzled  look,  "that 
people  actually  took  them  away;  but  they  melted  away. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT?  153 

However,  I  had  much  still  to  be  thankful  for:  I  was  so 
strong,  and  had  such  high  spirits,  Sophy,  and  found  people 
not  behaving  ill  to  me, —  quite  the  contrary,  so  kind.  I 
found  no  Crane  (she  monster)  as  you  did,  my  little  angel. 
Such  prospects  before  me,  if  I  had  walked  straight  towards 
them !  But  I  followed  my  own  fancy,  which  led  me  zigzag ; 
and  now  that  I  would  stray  back  into  the  high  road,  you  see 
before  you  a  man  whom  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  could  send  to 
the  treadmill  for  presuming  to  live  without  a  livelihood." 

SOPHY.  —  "  Not  without  a  livelihood !  —  the  what  did  you 
call  it?  —  independent  income, — that  is,  the  Three  Pounds, 
Grandy?" 

WAIFE  (admiringly).  —  "Sensible  child.  That  is  true. 
Yes,  Heaven  is  very  good  to  me  still.  Ah!  what  signifies 
fortune?  How  happy  I  was  with  my  dear  Lizzy,  and  yet  no 
two  persons  could  live  more  from  hand  to  mouth." 

SOPHY  (rather  jealously).  —  "  Lizzy?  " 

WAIFE  (with  moistened  eyes,  and  looking  down).  —  "My 
wife.  She  was  only  spared  to  me  two  years:  such  sunny 
years  I  And  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  that  she  did  not  live 
longer.  She  was  saved  —  such  —  such  —  such  shame  and 
misery ! "  A  long  pause. 

Waife  resumed,  with  a  rush  from  memory,  as  if  plucking 
himself  from  the  claws  of  a  harpy, —  "What's  the  good  of 
looking  back?  A  man's  gone  self  is  a  dead  thing.  It  is  not 
I  —  now  tramping  this  road,  with  you  to  lean  upon  —  whom  I 
see,  when  I  would  turn  to  look  behind  on  that  which  I  once 
was:  it  is  another  being,  defunct  and  buried;  and  when  I 
say  to  myself,  'that  being  did  so  and  so,'  it  is  like  reading  an 
epitaph  on  a  tombstone.  So,  at  last,  solitary  and  hopeless,  I 
came  back  to  my  own  land;  and  I  found  you, —  a  blessing 
greater  than  I  had  ever  dared  to  count  on.  And  how  was  I 
to  maintain  you,  and  take  you  from  that  long-nosed  alligator 
called  Crane,  and  put  you  in  womanly  gentle  hands;  for  I 
never  thought  then  of  subjecting  you  to  all  you  have  since 
undergone  with  me,  —  I  who  did  not  know  one  useful  thing 
in  life  by  which  a  man  can  turn  a  penny.  And  then,  as  I  was 
all  alone  in  a  village  ale-house,  on  my  way  back  from  —  it 


154  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

does  not  signify  from  what,  or  from  whence,  but  I  was  disap- 
pointed and  despairing,  Providence  mercifully  threw  in  my 
way  —  Mr.  Rugge,  and  ordained  me  to  be  of  great  service  to 
that  ruffian,  and  that  ruffian  of  great  use  to  me." 

SOPHY.  —  "  Ah,  how  was  that?  " 

WAIFE.  —  "  It  was  fair  time  in  the  village  wherein  I 
stopped,  and  Rugge's  principal  actor  was  taken  off  by  de- 
lirium tremens,  which  is  Latin  for  a  disease  common  to  men 
who  eat  little  and  drink  much.  Rugge  came  into  the  ale- 
house bemoaning  his  loss.  A  bright  thought  struck  me. 
Once  in  my  day  I  had  been  used  to  acting.  I  offered  to  try 
my  chance  on  Mr.  Rugge's  stage :  he  caught  at  me,  I  at  him. 
I  succeeded:  we  came  to  terms,  and  my  little  Sophy  was 
thus  taken  from  that  ringleted  crocodile,  and  placed  with 
Christian  females  who  wore  caps  and  read  their  Bible.  Is 
not  Heaven  good  to  us,  Sophy;  and  to  me  too  —  me,  such  a 
scamp?" 

"And  you  did  all  that, —  suffered  all  that  for  my  sake? " 

"  Suffered,  but  I  liked  it.  And,  besides,  I  must  have  done 
something;  and  there  were  reasons  —  in  short,  I  was  quite 
happy;  no,  not  actually  happy,  but  comfortable  and  merry. 
Providence  gives  thick  hides  to  animals  that  must  exist  in 
cold  climates ;  and  to  the  man  whom  it  reserves  for  sorrow, 
Providence  gives  a  coarse,  jovial  temper.  Then,  when  by  a 
mercy  I  was  saved  from  what  I  most  disliked  and  dreaded, 
and  never  would  have  thought  of  but  that  I  fancied  it  might 
be  a  help  to  you, —  I  mean  the  London  stage, — and  had  that 
bad  accident  on  the  railway,  how  did  it  end?  Oh!  in  saving 
you"  (and  Waife  closed  his  eyes  and  shuddered),  "in  saving 
your  destiny  from  what  might  be  much  worse  for  you,  body 
and  soul,  than  the  worst  that  has  happened  to  you  with  me. 
And  so  we  have  been  thrown  together;  and  so  you  have  sup- 
ported me ;  and  so,  when  we  could  exist  without  Mr.  Rugge, 
Providence  got  rid  of  him  for  us.  And  so  we  are  now  walk- 
ing along  the  high  road;  and  through  yonder  trees  you  can 
catch  a  peep  of  the  roof  under  which  we  are  about  to  rest  for 
a  while ;  and  there  you  will  learn  what  I  have  done  with  the 
Three  Pounds!" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  155 

"It  is  not  the  Spotted  Boy,  Grandy?" 

"No,"  said  Waife,  sighing;  "the  Spotted  Boy  is  a  hand- 
some income;  but  let  us  only  trust  in  Providence,  and  I 
should  not  wonder  if  our  new  acquisition  proved  a  mon- 
strous —  " 

"  Monstrous ! " 

"Piece  of  good  fortune." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  investment  revealed. 

GENTLEMAN  WAIFE  passed  through  a  turnstile,  down  a 
narrow  lane,  and  reached  a  solitary  cottage.  He  knocked  at 
the  door;  an  old  peasant  woman  opened  it,  and  dropped  him 
a  civil  courtesy.  "  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  glad  you  are  come.  I  'se 
most  af eared  he  be  dead." 

"Dead! "  exclaimed  Waife.  "Oh,  Sophy,  if  he  should  be 
dead!" 

"Who?" 

Waife  did  not  heed  the  question.  "  What  makes  you  think 
him  dead?"  said  he,  fumbling  in  his  pockets,  from  which  he 
at  last  produced  a  key.  "  You  have  not  been  disobeying  my 
strict  orders,  and  tampering  with  the  door?  " 

"  Lor'  love  ye,  no,  sir.  But  he  made  such  a  noise  at  fust 
—  awful!  And  now  he's  as  still  as  a  corpse.  And  I  did 
peep  through  the  keyhole,  and  he  was  stretched  stark." 

"Hunger,  perhaps,"  said  the  Comedian;  "'tis  his  way 
when  he  has  been  kept  fasting  much  over  his  usual  hours. 
Follow  me,  Sophy."  He  put  aside  the  woman,  entered  the 
sanded  kitchen,  ascended  a  stair  that  led  from  it ;  and  Sophy 
following,  stopped  at  a  door  and  listened :  not  a  sound.  Tim- 
idly he  unlocked  the  portals  and  crept  in,  when,  suddenly 
such  a  rush, —  such  a  spring,  and  a  mass  of  something  vehe- 
ment yet  soft,  dingy  yet  whitish,  whirled  past  the  actor,  and 


156  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

came  pounce  against  Sophy,  who  therewith  uttered  a  shriek. 
"  Stop  him,  stop  him,  for  heaven's  sake, "  cried  Waif e.  "  Shut 
the  door  below, —  seize  him."  Downstairs,  however,  went 
the  mass,  and  downstairs  after  it  hobbled  Waife,  returning 
in  a  few  moments  with  the  recaptured  and  mysterious  fugi- 
tive. "There,"  he  cried  triumphantly  to  Sophy,  who,  stand- 
ing against  the  wall  with  her  face  buried  in  her  frock,  long 
refused  to  look  up, —  "there, — tame  as  a  lamb,  and  knows 
me.  See!"  he  seated  himself  on  the  floor,  and  Sophy,  hes- 
itatingly opening  her  eyes,  beheld  gravely  gazing  at  her  from 
under  a  profusion  of  shaggy  locks  an  enormous  — 


CHAPTER  III. 

DENOUEMENT ! 
POODLE! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ZOOLOGY  in  connection  with  history. 

"WALK  to  that  young  lady,  sir, — walk,  I  say."  The 
poodle  slowly  rose  on  his  hind  legs,  and,  with  an  aspect  inex- 
pressibly solemn,  advanced  towards  Sophy,  who  hastily  re- 
ceded into  the  room  in  which  the  creature  had  been  confined. 

"Make  a  bow  —  no  —  a  bow,  sir;  that  is  right:  you  can 
shake  hands  another  time.  Run  down,  Sophy,  and  ask  for 
his  dinner." 

"Yes;  that  I  will;"  and  Sophy  flew  down  the  stairs. 

The  dog,  still  on  his  hind  legs,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor  dignified,  but  evidently  expectant. 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  157 

"That  will  do;  lie  down  and  die.     Die  this  moment,  sir." 

The  dog  stretched  himself  out,  closed  his  eyes,  and  to  all 
appearance  gave  up  the  ghost.  "A  most  splendid  invest- 
ment," said  Waife,  with  enthusiasm;  "and  upon  the  whole, 
dog  cheap.  Ho!  you  are  not  to  bring  up  his  dinner;  it  is  not 
you  who  are  to  make  friends  with  the  dog;  it  is  my  little  girl; 
send  her  up ;  Sophy,  Sophy ! " 

"She  be  fritted,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  holding  a  plate  of 
canine  comestibles;  "but  lauk,  sir,  be  n't  he  really  dead?" 

"Sophy,  Sophy!" 

"Please  let  me  stay  here,  Grandy,"  said  Sophy's  voice  from 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Nonsense!  it  is  sixteen  hours  since  he  has  had  a  morsel 
to  eat.  And  he  will  never  bite  the  hand  that  feeds  him  now. 
Come  up,  I  say." 

Sophy  slowly  reascended,  and  Waife  summoning  the  poodle 
to  life,  insisted  upon  the  child's  feeding  him.  And  indeed, 
when  that  act  of  charity  was  performed,  the  dog  evinced  his 
gratitude  by  a  series  of  unsophisticated  bounds  and  wag- 
gings  of  the  tail,  which  gradually  removed  Sophy's  apprehen- 
sions, and  laid  the  foundation  for  that  intimate  friendship 
which  is  the  natural  relation  between  child  and  dog. 

"And  how  did  you  come  by  him?"  asked  Sophy;  "and  is 
this  really  the  —  the  INVESTMENT?  " 

"Shut  the  door  carefully,  but  see  first  that  the  woman  is 
not  listening.  Lie  down,  sir,  there,  at  the  feet  of  the  young 
lady.  Good  dog!  How  did  I  come  by  him?  I  will  tell  you. 
The  first  day  we  arrived  at  the  village  which  we  have  just 
left  I  went  into  the  tobacconist's.  While  I  was  buying  my 
ounce  of  canaster  that  dog  entered  the  shop.  In  his  mouth 
was  a  sixpence  wrapped  in  paper.  He  lifted  himself  on  his 
hind  legs,  and  laid  his  missive  on  the  counter.  The  shop- 
woman  —  you  know  her,  Mrs.  Traill  —  unfolded  the  paper  and 
read  the  order.  'Clever  dog  that,  sir,'  said  she.  'To  fetch 
and  carry?'  said  I,  indifferently.  'More  than  that,  sir;  you 
shall  see.  The  order  is  for  two  penn'orth  of  snuff.  The  dog 
knows  he  is  to  take  back  fourpence.  I  will  give  him  a  penny 
short. '  So  she  took  the  sixpence  and  gave  the  dog  threepence 


158  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

out  of  it.  The  dog  shook  his  head  and  looked  gravely  into 
her  face.  'That's  all  you'll  get,' said  she.  The  dog  shook 
his  head  again,  and  tapped  his  paw  once  on  the  counter,  as 
much  as  to  say,  'I'm  not  to  be  done:  a  penny  more,  if  you 
please.'  'If  you '11  not  take  that,  you  shall  have  nothing,' 
said  Mrs.  Traill,  and  she  took  back  the  threepence." 
"Dear!  and  what  did  the  dog  do  then, —  snarl  or  bite?" 
"Not  so;  he  knew  he  was  in  his  rights,  and  did  not  lower 
himself  by  showing  bad  temper.  The  dog  looked  quietly 
round,  saw  a  basket  which  contained  two  or  three  pounds  of 
candles  lying  in  a  corner  for  the  shop  boy  to  take  to  some 
customer;  took  up  the  basket  in  his  mouth,  and  turned  tail, 
as  much  as  to  say,  'Tit  for  tat  then.'  He  understood,  you 
see,  what  is  called  'the  law  ol  reprisals.'  'Come  back  this 
moment, '  cried  Mrs.  Traill.  The  dog  walked  out  of  the  shop ; 
then  she  ran  after  him,  and  counted  the  fourpence  before  him, 
on  which  he  dropped  the  basket,  picked  up  the  right  change, 
and  went  off  demurely.  'To  whom  does  that  poodle  belong? ' 
said  I.  'To  a  poor  drunken  man,'  said  Mrs.  Traill;  'I  wish 
it  was  in  better  hands.'  'So  do  I,  ma'am,'  answered  I;  'did 
he  teach  it? '  'No,  it  was  taught  by  his  brother,  who  was  an 
old  soldier,  and  died  in  his  house  two  weeks  ago.  It  knows 
a  great  many  tricks,  and  is  quite  young.  It  might  make  a 
fortune  as  a  show,  sir. '  So  I  was  thinking.  I  inquired  the 
owner's  address,  called  on  him,  arid  found  him  disposed  to 
sell  the  dog.  But  he  asked  £3,  a  sum  that  seemed  out  of  the 
question  then.  Still  I  kept  the  dog  in  my  eye ;  called  every 
day  to  make  friends  with  it,  and  ascertain  its  capacities. 
And  at  last,  thanks  to  you,  Sophy,  I  bought  the  dog;  and 
what  is  more,  as  soon  as  I  had  two  golden  sovereigns  to  show, 
I  got  him  for  that  sum,  and  we  have  still  £1  left  (besides 
small  savings  from  our  lost  salaries)  to  go  to  the  completion 
of  his  education,  and  the  advertisement  of  his  merits.  I 
kept  this  a  secret  from  Merle, —  from  all.  1  would  not  even 
let  the  drunken  owner  know  where  I  took  the  dog  to  yester- 
day. I  brought  him  here,  where,  I  learned  in  the  village, 
there  were  two  rooms  to  let,  locked  him  up,  and  my  story  is 
told." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  159 

"But  why  keep  it  such  a  secret?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  Rugge  to  trace  us.  He  might  do 
one  a  mischief;  because  I  have  a  grand  project  of  genteel 
position  and  high  prices  for  the  exhibition  of  that  dog.  And 
why  should  it  be  known  where  we  come  from,  or  what  we 
were?  And  because,  if  the  owner  knew  where  to  find  the 
dog,  he  might  decoy  it  back  from  us.  Luckily  he  had  not 
made  the  dog  so  fond  of  him  but  what,  unless  it  be  decoyed, 
it  will  accustom  itself  to  us.  And  now  I  propose  that  we 
should  stay  a  week  or  so  here,  and  devote  ourselves  exclu- 
sively to  developing  the  native  powers  of  this  gifted  creature. 
Get  out  the  dominos." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"Ha!  that  is  the  first  consideration.  What  shall  be  his 
name?" 

"Has  he  not  one  already?" 

"Yes, —  trivial  and  unattractive, —  Mop!  In  private  life  it 
might  pass.  But  in  public  life  —  give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and 
hang  him.  Mop,  indeed ! " 

Therewith  Mop,  considering  himself  appealed  to,  rose  and 
stretched  himself. 

"Right,"  said  Gentleman  Waife;  "stretch  yourself:  you 
decidedly  require  it." 


CHAPTER  V. 

MOP  becomes  a  personage.  —  Much  thought  is  bestowed  on  the  verbal  digni- 
ties, without  which  a  personage  would  become  a  mop.  —  The  importance 
of  names  is  apparent  in  all  history.  —  If  Augustus  had  called  himself  king, 
Rome  would  have  risen  against  him  as  a  Tarquin  ;  so  he  remained  a  simple 
equestrian,  and  modestly  called  himself  Imperator.  —  Mop  chooses  his  own 
title  in  a  most  mysterious  manner,  and  ceases  to  be  Mop. 

"THE  first  noticeable  defect  in  your  name  of  Mop,"  said 
Gentleman  Waife,  "is,  as  you  yourself  denote,  the  want  of 
elongation.  Monosyllables  are  not  imposing,  and  in  striking 


160  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

compositions  their  meaning  is  elevated  by  periphrasis;  that 
is  to  say,  Sophy,  that  what  before  was  a  short  truth,  an  ele- 
gant author  elaborates  into  a  long  stretch." 

"Certainly,"  said  Sophy,  thoughtfully;  "I  don't  think  the 
name  of  Mop  would  draw!  Still  he  is  very  like  a  mop." 

"For  that  reason  the  name  degrades  him  the  more,  and 
lowers  him  from  an  intellectual  phenomenon  to  a  physical 
attribute,  which  is  vulgar.  I  hope  that  that  dog  will  enable 
us  to  rise  in  the  scale  of  being.  For  whereas  we  in  acting 
could  only  command  a  threepenny  audience  —  reserved  seats 
a  shilling  —  he  may  aspire  to  half-crowns  and  dress-boxes; 
that  is,  if  we  can  hit  on  a  name  which  inspires  respect. 
Now,  although  the  dog  is  big,  it  is  not  by  his  size  that  he  is 
to  become  famous,  or  we  might  call  him  Hercules  or  Goliath; 
neither  is  it  by  his  beauty,  or  Adonis  would  not  be  unsuit- 
able. It  is  by  his  superior  sagacity  and  wisdom.  And  there 
I  am  puzzled  to  find  his  prototype  amongst  mortals ;  for,  per- 
haps, it  may  be  my  ignorance  of  history  —  " 

"  You  ignorant,  indeed,  Grandfather ! " 

"But  considering  the  innumerable  millions  who  have  lived 
on  the  earth,  it  is  astonishing  how  few  I  can  call  to  mind  who 
have  left  behind  them  a  proverbial  renown  for  wisdom.  There 
is,  indeed,  Solomon,  but  he  fell  off  at  the  last;  and  as  he  be- 
longs to  sacred  history,  we  must  not  take  a  liberty  with  his 
name.  Who  is  there  very,  very  wise,  besides  Solomon? 
Think,  Sophy, — Profane  History." 

SOPHY  (after  a  musing  pause).  —  "Puss  in  Boots." 

"Well,  he  was  wise;  but  then  he  was  not  human;  he  was 
a  cat.  Ha!  Socrates.  Shall  we  call  him  Socrates,  Socrates, 
Socrates?" 

SOPHY.  —  "  Socrates,  Socrates ! " 

Mop  yawned. 

WAIFE.  —  "He  don't  take  to  Socrates, — prosy! " 

SOPHY.  —  "Ah,  Mr.  Merle's  book  about  the  Brazen  Head, 
Friar  Bacon!  He  must  have  been  very  wise." 

WAIFE.  —  "Not  bad;  mysterious,  but  not  recondite;  his- 
torical, yet  familiar.  What  does  Mop  say  to  it?  Friar, 
Friar,  Friar  Bacon,  sir, — Friar!  " 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  161 

SOPHY  (coaxingly).  —  "Friar!  " 

Mop,  evidently  conceiving  that  appeal  is  made  to  some 
other  personage,  canine  or  human,  not  present,  rouses  up, 
walks  to  the  door,  smells  at  the  cliink,  returns,  shakes  his 
head,  and  rests  on  his  haunches,  eying  his  two  friends 
superciliously. 

SOPHY.  — "He  does  not  take  to  that  name." 

WAIFE.  —  "  He  has  his  reasons  for  it ;  and  indeed  there  are 
many  worthy  persons  who  disapprove  of  anything  that  savours 
of  magical  practices.  Mop  intimates  that  on  entering  public 
life  one  should  beware  of  offending  the  respectable  prejudices 
of  a  class." 

Mr.  Waife  then,  once  more  resorting  to  the  recesses  of 
scholastic  memory,  plucked  therefrom,  somewhat  by  the  head 
and  shoulders,  sundry  names  reverenced  in  a  by-gone  age. 
He  thought  of  the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece,  but  could  only 
recall  the  nomenclature  of  two  out  of  the  seven, —  a  sad  proof 
of  the  distinction  between  collegiate  fame  and  popular  re- 
nown. He  called  Thales ;  he  called  Bion.  Mop  made  no  re- 
sponse. "  Wonderful  intelligence !"  said  Waife;  "he  knows 
that  Thales  and  Bion  would  not  draw!  — obsolete." 

Mop  was  equally  mute  to  Aristotle.  He  pricked  up  his 
ears  at  Plato,  perhaps  because  the  sound  was  not  wholly  dis- 
similar from  that  of  Ponto, — a  name  of  which  he  might  have 
had  vague  reminiscences.  The  Romans  not  having  culti- 
vated an  original  philosophy,  though  they  contrived  to  pro- 
duce great  men  without  it,  Waife  passed  by  that  perished 
people.  He  crossed  to  China,  and  tried  Confucius.  Mop 
had  evidently  never  heard  of  him. 

"  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  list,  so  far  as  the  wise  men  are  con- 
cerned, "  said  Waife,  wiping  his  forehead.  "  If  Mop  were  to 
distinguish  himself  by  valour,  one  would  find  heroes  by  the 
dozen, — Achilles,  and  Hector,  and  Julius  Caesar,  and  Pompey, 
and  Bonaparte,  and  Alexander  the  Great,  and  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough.  Or,  if  he  wrote  poetry,  we  could  fit  him  to  a 
hair.  But  wise  men  certainly  are  scarce,  and  when  one  has 
hit  on  a  wise  man's  name  it  is  so  little  known  to  the  vulgar 
that  it  would  carry  no  more  weight  with  it  than  Spot  or  Toby. 

VOL.  I  —  11 


162  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

But  necessarily  some  name  the  dog  must  have,  and  take  to 
sympathetically. " 

Sophy  meanwhile  had  extracted  the  dominos  from  Waife's 
bundle,  and  with  the  dominos  an  alphabet  and  a  multiplica- 
tion-table in  printed  capitals.  As  the  Comedian's  one  eye 
rested  upon  the  last,  he  exclaimed,  "But  after  all,  Mop's 
great  strength  will  probably  be  in  arithmetic,  and  the  science 
of  numbers  is  the  root  of  all  wisdom.  Besides,  every  man, 
high  and  low,  wants  to  make  a  fortune,  and  associations  con- 
nected with  addition  and  multiplication  are  always  pleasing. 
Who,  then,  is  the  sage  at  computation  most  universally 
known?  Unquestionably  Cocker!  He  must  take  to  that, — 
Cocker,  Cocker  "  (commandingly),  —  "  C-o-c-k-e-r  "  (with 
persuasive  sweetness). 

Mop  looked  puzzled;  he  put  his  head  first  on  one  side,  then 
on  the  other. 

SOPHY  (with  mellifluous  endearment).  — "  Cocker,  good 
Cocker;  Cocker  dear! " 

BOTH.  —  "Cocker,  Cocker,  Cocker!" 

Excited  and  bewildered,  Mop  put  up  his  head,  and  gave 
vent  to  his  perplexities  in  a  long  and  lugubrious  howl,  to 
which  certainly  none  who  heard  it  could  have  desired  addition 
or  multiplication. 

"Stop  this  instant,  sir, —  stop;  I  shoot  you!  You  are 
dead, —  down!"  Waife  adjusted  his  staff  to  his  shoulder 
gun-wise;  and  at  the  word  of  command,  "Down,"  Mop  was 
on  his  side,  stiff  and  lifeless.  "Still,"  said  Waife,  "a  name 
connected  with  profound  calculation  would  be  the  most 
appropriate;  for  instance,  Sir  Isaac  — " 

Before  the  Comedian  could  get  out  the  word  Newton,  Mop 
had  sprung  to  his  four  feet,  and,  with  wagging  tail  and  wrig- 
gling back,  evinced  a  sense  of  beatified  recognition. 

"Astounding!"  said  Waife,  rather  awed.  "Can  it  be  the 
name?  Impossible.  Sir  Isaac,  Sir  Isaac !" 

"  Bow-wow !  "  answered  Mop,  joyously. 

"If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  doctrine  of  metempsychosis," 
faltered  Gentleman  Waife,  "  if  the  great  Newton  could  have 
transmigrated  into  that  incomparable  animal!  Newton,  New- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  163 

ton !  "  To  that  name  Mop  made  no  obeisance,  but,  evidently 
still  restless,  walked  round  the  room,  smelling  at  every  cor- 
ner, and  turning  to  look  back  with  inquisitive  earnestness  at 
his  new  master. 

"He  does  not  seem  to  catch  at  the  name  of  Newton,"  said 
Waif e,  trying  it  thrice  again,  and  vainly,  "  and  yet  he  seems 
extremely  well  versed  in  the  principle  of  gravity.  Sir  Isaac!" 
The  dog  bounded  towards  him,  put  his  paws  on  his  shoulder, 
and  licked  his  face.  "Just  cut  out  those  figures  carefully, 
my  dear,  and  see  if  we  can  get  him  to  tell  us  how  much  twice 
ten  are  —  I  mean  by  addressing  him  as  Sir  Isaac." 

Sophy  cut  the  figures  from  the  multiplication  table,  and  ar- 
ranged them,  at  Waife's  instruction,  in  a  circle  on  the  floor. 

"Now,  Sir  Isaac."  .  Mop  lifted  a  paw,  and  walked  deliber- 
ately round  the  letters.  "  Now,  Sir  Isaac,  how  much  are  ten 
times  two?  "  Mop  deliberately  made  his  survey  and  calcula- 
tion, and,  pausing  at  twenty,  stooped,  and  took  the  letters  in 
his  mouth. 

"It  is  not  natural,"  cried  Sophy,  much  alarmed.  "It  must 
be  wicked,  and  I  'd  rather  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  please." 

"  Silly  child !  He  was  but  obeying  my  sign.  He  had  been 
taught  that  trick  already  under  the  name  of  Mop.  The  only 
strange  thing  is,  that  he  should  do  it  also  under  the  name  of 
Sir  Isaac,  and  much  more  cheerfully  too.  However,  whether 
he  has  been  the  great  Newton  or  not,  a  live  dog  is  better  than 
a  dead  lion.  But  it  is  clear  that,  in  acknowledging  the  name 
of  Sir  Isaac,  he  does  not  encourage  us  to  take  that  of  New- 
ton ;  and  he  is  right :  for  it  might  be  thought  unbecoming  to 
apply  to  an  animal,  however  extraordinary,  who  by  the  se- 
verity of  fortune  is  compelled  to  exhibit  his  talents  for  a 
small  pecuniary  reward,  the  family  name  of  so  great  a  phi- 
losopher. Sir  Isaac,  after  all,  is  a  vague  appellation;  any 
dog  has  a  right  to  be  Sir  Isaac  •  Newton  may  be  left  conject- 
ural. Let  us  see  if  we  can  add  to  our  arithmetical  informa- 
tion. Look  at  me,  Sir  Isaac."  Sir  Isaac  looked  and  grinned 
affectionately ;  and  under  that  title  learned  a  new  combination 
with  a  facility  that  might  have  relieved  Sophy's  mind  of  all 
superstitious  belief  that  the  philosopher  was  resuscitated  in 


164  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  dog,  had  she  known  that  in  life  that  great  master  of  cal- 
culations the  most  abstruse  could  not  accurately  cast  up  a 
simple  sum  in  addition.  Nothing  brought  him  to  the  end  of 
his  majestic  tether  like  dot  and  carry  one.  Notable  type  of 
our  human  incompleteness,  where  men  might  deem  our  stud- 
ies had  made  us  most  complete !  Notable  type,  too,  of  that 
grandest  order  of  all  human  genius  which  seems  to  arrive  at 
results  by  intuition,  which  a  child  might  pose  by  a  row  of 
figures  on  a  slate,  while  it  is  solving  the  laws  that  link  the 
stars  to  infinity!  But  revenons  a  nos  moutons,  what  was  the 
astral  attraction  that  incontestably  bound  the  reminiscences 
of  Mop  to  the  cognominal  distinction  of  Sir  Isaac?  I  had 
prepared  a  very  erudite  and  subtle  treatise  upon  this  query, 
enlivened  by  quotations  from  the  ancient  Mystics, —  such  as 
lamblicus  and  Proclus, — as  well  as  by  a  copious  reference  to 
the  doctrine  of  the  more  modern  Spiritualists,  from  Sir 
Kenelm  Digby  and  Swedenborg,  to  Monsieur  Cahagnet  and 
Judge  Edwards.  It  was  to  be  called  Inquiry  into  the  Law 
of  Affinities,  by  Philomopsos:  when,  unluckily  for  my  trea- 
tise, I  arrived  at  the  knowledge  of  a  fact  which,  though  it  did 
not  render  the  treatise  less  curious,  knocked  on  the  head  the 
theory  upon  which  it  was  based.  The  baptismal  name  of  the 
old  soldier,  Mop's  first  proprietor  and  earliest  preceptor,  was 
Isaac ;  and  his  master  being  called  in  the  homely  household 
by  that  Christian  name,  the  sound  had  entered  into  Mop's 
youngest  and  most  endeared  associations.  His  canine  affec- 
tions had  done  much  towards  ripening  his  scholastic  educa- 
tion. "Where  is  Isaac?"  " Call  Isaac !"  "Fetch  Isaac  his 
hat,"  etc.  Stilled  was  that  name  when  the  old  soldier  died; 
but  when  heard  again,  Mop's  heart  was  moved,  and  in  miss- 
ing the  old  master,  he  felt  more  at  home  with  the  new.  As 
for  the  title,  "Sir,"  it  was  a  mere  expletive  in  his  ears.  Such 
was  the  fact,  and  such  the  deduction  to  be  drawn  from  it. 
Not  that  it  will  satisfy  every  one.  I  know  that  philosophers 
who  deny  all  that  they  have  not  witnessed,  and  refuse  to 
witness  what  they  resolve  to  deny,  will  reject  the  story  in 
toto;  and  will  prove,  by  reference  to  their  own  dogs,  that  a 
dog  never  recognizes  the  name  of  his  master, —  never  yet 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  165 

could  be  taught  arithmetic.  I  know  also  that  there  are  Mys- 
tics who  will  prefer  to  believe  that  Mop  was  in  direct  spiritual 
communication  with  unseen  Isaacs,  or  in  a  state  of  clairvoy- 
ance, or  under  the  influence  of  the  odic  fluid.  But  did  we 
ever  yet  find  in  human  reason  a  question  with  only  one  side 
to  it?  Is  not  truth  a  polygon?  Have  not  sages  arisen  in  our 
day  to  deny  even  the  principle  of  gravity,  for  which  we  had 
been  so  long  contentedly  taking  the  word  of  the  great  Sir 
Isaac?  It  is  that  blessed  spirit  of  controversy  which  keeps 
the  world  going;  and  it  is  that  which,  perhaps,  explains  why 
Mr.  Waife,  when  his  memory  was  fairly  put  to  it,  could  re- 
member, out  of  the  history  of  the  myriads  who  have  occupied 
our  planet  from  the  date  of  Adam  to  that  in  which  I  now 
write,  so  very  few  men  whom  the  world  will  agree  to  call 
wise,  and  out  of  that  very  few  so  scant  a  percentage  with 
names  sufficiently  known  to  make  them  more  popularly  sig- 
nificant of  pre-eminent  sagacity  than  if  they  had  been  called 
—  Mops. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  vagrant  having  got  his  dog,  proceeds  to  hunt  fortune  with  it,  leaving 
behind  him  a  trap  to  catch  rats.  —  What  the  trap  does  catch  is  "  just  like 
his  luck." 

SIB  ISAAC,  to  designate  him  by  his  new  name,  improved 
much  upon  acquaintance.  He  was  still  in  the  ductile  season 
of  youth,  and  took  to  learning  as  an  amusement  to  himself. 
His  last  master,  a  stupid  sot,  had  not  gained  his  affections; 
and  perhaps  even  the  old  soldier,  though  gratefully  remem- 
bered and  mourned,  had  not  stolen  into  his  innermost  heart, 
as  Waife  and  Sophy  gently  contrived  to  do.  In  short,  in  a  very 
few  days  he  became  perfectly  accustomed  and  extremely  at- 
tached to  them.  When  Waife  had  ascertained  the  extent  of 
his  accomplishments,  and  added  somewhat  to  their  range  in 


l»'»'')  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

matters  which  cost  no  great  trouble,  he  applied  himself  to  the 
task  of  composing  a  little  drama  which  might  bring  them  all 
into  more  interesting  play,  and  in  which  though  Sophy  and 
himself  were  performers  the  dog  had  the  premier  role.  And 
as  soon  as  this  was  done,  and  the  dog's  performances  thus 
ranged  into  methodical  order  and  sequence,  he  resolved  to  set 
off  to  a  considerable  town  at  some  distance,  and  to  which  Mr. 
Kugge  was  no  visitor. 

His  bill  at  the  cottage  made  but  slight  inroad  into  his  pe- 
cuniary resources;  for  in  the  intervals  of  leisure  from  his 
instructions  to  Sir  Isaac,  Waife  had  performed  various  little 
services  to  the  lone  widow  with  whom  they  lodged,  which 
Mrs.  Saunders  (such  was  her  name)  insisted  upon  regarding 
as  money's  worth.  He  had  repaired  and  regulated  to  a  min- 
ute an  old  clock  which  had  taken  no  note  of  time  for  the  last 
three  years ;  he  had  mended  all  the  broken  crockery  by  some 
cement  of  his  own  invention,  and  for  which  she  got  him  the 
materials.  And  here  his  ingenuity  was  remarkable,  for  when 
there  was  only  a  fragment  to  be  found  of  a  cup  and  a  fragment 
or  two  of  a  saucer,  he  united  them  both  into  some  pretty 
form,  which,  if  not  useful,  at  all  events  looked  well  on  a 
shelf.  He  bound,  in  smart  showy  papers,  sundry  tattered 
old  books  which  had  belonged  to  his  landlady's  defunct  hus- 
band, a  Scotch  gardener,  and  which  she  displayed  on  a  side 
table,  under  the  japan  tea-tray.  More  than  all,  he  was  of 
service  to  her  in  her  vocation;  for  Mrs.  Saunders  eked  out 
a  small  pension  —  which  she  derived  from  the  affectionate 
providence  of  her  Scotch  husband,  in  insuring  his  life  in  her 
favour  —  by  the  rearing  and  sale  of  poultry ;  and  Waife  saved 
her  the  expense  of  a  carpenter  by  the  construction  of  a  new 
coop,  elevated  above  the  reach  of  the  rats,  who  had  hitherto 
made  sad  ravage  amongst  the  chickens ;  while  he  confided  to 
her  certain  secrets  in  the  improvement  of  breed  and  the 
cheaper  processes  of  fattening,  which  excited  her  gratitude 
no  less  than  her  wonder.  "The  fact  is,"  said  Gentleman 
Waife,  "that  my  life  has  known  makeshifts.  Once,  in  a 
foreign  country,  I  kept  poultry,  upon  the  principle  that  the 
poultry  should  keep  me." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  167 

Strange  it  was  to  notice  such  versatility  of  invention,  such 
readiness  of  resource,  such  familiarity  with  divers  nooks  and 
crannies  in  the  practical  experience  of  life,  in  a  man  now  so 
hard  put  to  it  for  a  livelihood.  There  are  persons,  however, 
who  might  have  a  good  stock  of  talent,  if  they  did  not  turn  it 
all  into  small  change.  And  you,  reader,  know  as  well  as  I 
do,  that  when  a  sovereign  or  a  shilling  is  once  broken  into, 
the  change  scatters  and  dispends  itself  in  a  way  quite  unac- 
countable. Still  coppers  are  useful  in  household  bills;  and 
when  Waife  was  really  at  a  pinch,  somehow  or  other,  by  hook 
or  by  crook,  he  scraped  together  intellectual  halfpence  enough 
to  pay  his  way. 

Mrs.  Saunders  grew  quite  fond  of  her  lodgers.  Waife  she 
regarded  as  a  prodigy  of  genius ;  Sophy  was  the  prettiest  and 
best  of  children.  Sir  Isaac,  she  took  for  granted,  was  worthy 
of  his  owners.  But  the  Comedian  did  not  confide  to  her  his 
dog's  learning,  nor  the  use  to  which  he  designed  to  put  it. 
And  in  still  greater  precaution,  when  he  took  his  leave,  he 
extracted  from  Mrs.  Saunders  a  solemn  promise  that  she 
would  set  no  one  on  his  track  in  case  of  impertinent  inquiries. 

"You  see  before  you,"  said  he,  "a  man  who  has  enemies, — 
such  as  rats  are  to  your  chickens :  chickens  despise  rats  when 
raised,  as  yours  are  now,  above  the  reach  of  claws  and  teeth. 
Some  day  or  other  I  may  so  raise  a  coop  for  that  little  one :  I 
am  too  old  for  coops.  Meanwhile,  if  a  rat  comes  sneaking 
here  after  us,  send  it  off  the  wrong  way,  with  a  flea  in  its 
ear." 

Mrs.  Saunders  promised,  between  tears  and  laughter; 
blessed  Waife,  kissed  Sophy,  patted  Sir  Isaac,  and  stood 
long  at  her  threshold  watching  the  three,  as  the  early  sun  lit 
their  forms  receding  in  the  narrow  green  lane, —  dewdrops 
sparkling  on  the  hedgerows,  and  the  skylark  springing  up- 
ward from  the  young  corn. 

Then  she  slowly  turned  indoors,  and  her  home  seemed  very 
solitary.  We  can  accustom  ourselves  to  loneliness,  but  we 
should  beware  of  infringing  the  custom.  Once  admit  two  or 
three  faces  seated  at  your  hearth  side,  or  gazing  out  from  your 
windows  on  the  laughing  sun,  and  when  they  are  gone,  they 


168  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

carry  off  the  glow  from  your  grate  and  the  sunbeam  from  your 
panes.  Poor  Mrs.  Saunders!  in  vain  she  sought  to  rouse  her- 
self, to  put  the  rooms  to  rights,  to  attend  to  the  chickens  to 
distract  her  thoughts.  The  one-eyed  cripple,  the  little  girl, 
the  shaggy-faced  dog,  still  haunted  her;  and  when  at  noon 
she  dined  all  alone  off  the  remnants  of  the  last  night's  social 
supper,  the  very  click  of  the  renovated  clock  seemed  to  say, 
"Gone,  gone;"  and  muttering,  "Ah!  gone,"  she  reclined 
back  on  her  chair,  and  indulged  herself  in  a  good  womanlike 
cry.  From  this  luxury  she  was  startled  by  a  knock  at  the 
door.  "Could  they  have  come  back?"  No;  the  door  opened, 
and  a  genteel  young  man,  in  a  black  coat  and  white  neckcloth, 
stepped  in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am  —  your  name  's  Saunders  —  sell 
poultry?" 

"At  your  service,  sir.  Spring  chickens?"  Poor  people, 
whatever  their  grief,  must  sell  their  chickens,  if  they  have 
any  to  sell. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am;  not  at  this  moment.  The  fact  is, 
that  I  call  to  make  some  inquiries  Have  not  you  lodgers 
here?" 

Lodgers !  at  that  word  the  expanding  soul  of  Mrs.  Saunders 
reclosed  hermetically;  the  last  warning  of  Waife  re  vibrated 
in  her  ears :  this  white  neckclothed  gentleman,  was  he  not  a 
rat? 

"No,  sir,  I  ha'n't  no  lodgers." 

"But  you  have  had  some  lately,  eh?  a  crippled  elderly  man 
and  a  little  girl." 

" Don't  know  anything  about  them;  leastways,"  said  Mrs. 
Saunders,  suddenly  remembering  that  she  was  told  less  to 
deny  facts  than  to  send  inquirers  upon  wrong  directions, — 
"  leastways,  at  this  blessed  time.  Pray,  sir,  what  makes  you 
ask?  " 

"  Why,  I  was  instructed  to  come  down  to ,  and  find  out 

where  this  person,  one  William  Waife,  had  gone.  Arrived 
yesterday,  ma'am.  All  I  could  hear  is,  that  a  person  an- 
swering to  his  description  left  the  place  several  days  ago,  and 
had  been  seen  by  a  boy,  who  was  tending  sheep,  to  come  down 


WHAT  WILL   HE   DO  WITH  IT?  169 

the  lane  to  your  house,  and  you  were  supposed  to  have  lodg- 
ers (you  take  lodgers  sometimes,  I  think,  ma'am),  because 
you  had  been  buying  some  trifling  articles  of  food  not  in  your 
usual  way  of  custom.  Circumstantial  evidence,  ma'am :  you 
can  have  no  motive  to  conceal  the  truth." 

"I  should  think  not  indeed,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Saunders, 
whom  the  ominous  words  "circumstantial  evidence"  set 
doubly  on  her  guard.  "I  did  see  a  gentleman  such  as  you 
mention,  and  a  pretty  young  lady,  about  ten  days  agone,  or 
so,  and  they  did  lodge  here  a  night  or  two,  but  they  are  gone 
to  —  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am, — gone  where  ?  " 

"Lunnon." 

"  Really  —  very  likely.     By  the  train  or  on  foot?  " 

"On  foot,  I  s 'pose." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  If  you  should  see  them  again,  or 
hear  where  they  are,  oblige  me  by  conveying  this  card  to  Mr. 
Waife.  My  employer,  ma'am,  Mr.  Gotobed,  Craven  Street, 
Strand, — eminent  solicitor.  He  has  something  of  importance 
to  communciate  to  Mr.  Waife." 

"Yes,  sir, —  a  lawyer;  I  understand."  And  as  of  all  rat- 
like  animals  in  the  world  Mrs.  Saunders  had  the  ignorance  to 
deem  a  lawyer  was  the  most  emphatically  devouring,  she  con- 
gratulated herself  with  her  whole  heart  on  the  white  lies  she 
had  told  in  favour  of  the  intended  victims. 

The  black-coated  gentleman  having  thus  obeyed  his  instruc- 
tions and  attained  his  object,  nodded,  went  his  way,  and  re- 
gained the  fly  which  he  had  left  at  the  turnstile.  "  Back  to 
the  inn, "  cried  he,  "  quick :  I  must  be  in  time  for  the  three 
o'clock  train  to  London." 

And  thus  terminated  the  result  of  the  great  barrister's  first 
instructions  to  his  eminent  solicitor  to  discover  a  lame  man 
and  a  little  girl.  No  inquiry,  on  the  whole,  could  have  been 
more  skilfully  conducted.  Mr.  Gotobed  sends  his  head  clerk; 
the  head  clerk  employs  the  policeman  of  the  village;  gets 
upon  the  right  track ;  comes  to  the  right  house ;  and  is  alto- 
gether in  the  wrong, —  in  a  manner  highly  creditable  to  his 
researches. 


170  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

"  In  London,  of  course :  all  people  of  that  kind  come  back 
to  London,"  said  Mr.  G-otobed.  "Give  me  the  heads  in  writ- 
ing, that  I  may  report  to  my  distinguished  client.  Most  sat- 
isfactory. That  young  man  will  push  his  way, —  business- 
like and  methodical." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Tin:  cloud  has  its  silver  lining. 

THUS  turning  his  back  on  the  good,  fortune  which  he  had 
so  carefully  cautioned  Mrs.  Saunders  against  favouring  on  his 
behalf,  the  vagrant  was  now  on  his  way  to  the  ancient  mu- 
nicipal town  of  Gatesboro',  which,  being  the  nearest  place  of 
fitting  opulence  and  population,  Mr.  Waife  had  resolved  to 
honour  with  the  dtbut  of  Sir  Isaac  as  soon  as  he  had  appropri- 
ated to  himself  the  services  of  that  promising  quadruped.  He 
had  consulted  a  map  of  the  county  before  quitting  Mr.  Merle's 
roof,  and  ascertained  that  he  could  reach  Gatesboro'  by  a 
short  cut  for  foot-travellers  along  fields  and  lanes.  He  was 
always  glad  to  avoid  the  high  road :  doubtless  for  such  avoid- 
ance he  had  good  reasons.  But  prudential  reasons  were  in 
this  instance  supported  by  vagrant  inclinations.  High  roads 
are  for  the  prosperous.  By-paths  and  ill-luck  go  together. 
But  by-paths  have  their  charm,  and  ill-luck  its  pleasant 
moments. 

They  passed  then  from  the  high  road  into  a  long  succes- 
sion of  green  pastures,  through  which  a  straight  public  path 
conducted  them  into  one  of  those  charming  lanes  never  seen 
out  of  this  bowery  England, — a  lane  deep  sunk  amidst  high 
banks  with  overhanging  oaks,  and  quivering  ash,  gnarled 
wych-elm,  vivid  holly  and  shaggy  brambles,  with  wild  con- 
volvulus and  creeping  woodbine  forcing  sweet  life  through 
all.  Sometimes  the  banks  opened  abruptly,  leaving  patches 
of  green  sward,  and  peeps  through  still  sequestered  gates,  or 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  171 

over  moss-grown  pales,  into  the  park  or  paddock  of  some 
rural  thane.  New  villas  or  old  manor-houses  on  lawny  up- 
lands, knitting,  as  it  were,  together  England's  feudal  mem- 
ories with  England's  freeborn  hopes, —  the  old  land  with  its 
young  people ;  for  England  is  so  old,  and  the  English  are  so 
young!  And  the  gray  cripple  and  the  bright-haired  child 
often  paused,  and  gazed  upon  the  demesnes  and  homes  of 
owners  whose  lots  were  cast  in  such  pleasant  places.  But 
there  was  no  grudging  envy  in  their  gaze;  perhaps  because 
their  life  was  too  remote  from  those  grand  belongings.  And 
therefore  they  could  enjoy  and  possess  every  banquet  of  the 
eye.  For  at  least  the  beauty  of  what  we  see  is  ours  for 
the  moment,  on  the  simple  condition  that  we  do  not  covet  the 
thing  which  gives  to  our  eyes  that  beauty.  As  the  measure- 
less sky  and  the  unnumbered  stars  are  equally  granted  to 
king  and  to  beggar;  and  in  our  wildest  ambition  we  do  not 
sigh  for  a  monopoly  of  the  empyrean,  or  the  fee-simple  of  the 
planets:  so  the  earth  too,  with  all  its  fenced  gardens  and 
embattled  walls,  all  its  landmarks  of  stern  property  and 
churlish  ownership,  is  ours  too  by  right  of  eye.  Ours  to  gaze 
on  the  fair  possessions  with  such  delight  as  the  gaze  can 
give;  grudging  to  the  unseen  owner  his  other,  and,  it  may 
be,  more  troubled  rights,  as  little  as  we  grudge  an  astral  pro- 
prietor his  acres  of  light  in  Capricorn.  Benignant  is  the 
law  that  saith,  "Thou  shalt  not  covet." 

When  the  sun  was  at  the  highest  our  wayfarers  found  a 
shadowy  nook  for  their  rest  and  repast.  Before  them  ran  a 
shallow  limpid  trout-stream;  on  the  other  side  its  margin, 
low  grassy  meadows,  a  farmhouse  in  the  distance,  backed  by 
a  still  grove,  from  which  rose  a  still  church  tower  and  its  still 
spire.  Behind  them,  a  close-shaven  sloping  lawn  terminated 
the  hedgerow  of  the  lane;  seen  clearly  above  it,  with  par- 
terres of  flowers  on  the  sward,  drooping  lilacs  and  laburnums 
farther  back,  and  a  pervading  fragrance  from  the  brief -lived 
and  rich  syringas.  The  cripple  had  climbed  over  a  wooden 
rail  that  separated  the  lane  from  the  rill,  and  seated  himself 
under  the  shade  of  a  fantastic  hollow  thorn-tree.  Sophy,  re- 
clined beside  him,  was  gathering  some  pale  scentless  violets 


172  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

from  a  mound  which  the  brambles  had  guarded  from  the  sun. 
The  dog  had  descended  to  the  waters  to  quench  his  thirst, 
but  still  stood  knee-deep  in  the  shallow  stream,  and  appeared 
lost  in  philosophical  contemplation  of  a  swarm  of  minnows, 
which  his  immersion  had  disturbed,  but  which  now  made  it- 
self again  visible  on  the  farther  side  of  the  glassy  brook,  un- 
dulating round  and  round  a  tiny  rocklet  which  interrupted 
the  glide  of  the  waves,  and  caused  them  to  break  into  a  low 
melodious  murmur.  "  For  these  and  all  thy  mercies,  0  Lord, 
make  us  thankful,"  said  the  victim  of  ill-luck,  in  the  tritest 
words  of  a  pious  custom.  But  never,  perhaps,  at  aldermanic 
feasts  was  the  grace  more  sincerely  said. 

And  then  he  untied  the  bundle,  which  the  dog,  who  had 
hitherto  carried  it  by  the  way,  had  now  carefully  deposited 
at  his  side.  "As  I  live,"  ejaculated  Waife,  "Mrs.  Saunders 
is  a  woman  in  ten  thousand.  See,  Sophy,  not  contented  with 
the  bread  and  cheese  to  which  I  bade  her  stint  her  beneficence, 
a  whole  chicken, —  a  little  cake  too  for  you,  Sophy;  she  has 
not  even  forgotten  the  salt.  Sophy,  that  woman  deserves  the 
handsomest  token  of  our  gratitude ;  and  we  will  present  her 
with  a  silver  teapot  the  first  moment  we  can  afford  it." 

His  spirits  exhilarated  by  the  unexpected  good  cheer,  the 
Comedian  gave  way  to  his  naturally  blithe  humour;  and  be- 
tween every  mouthful  he  rattled  or  rather  drolled  on,  now 
infant-like,  now  sage-like.  He  cast  out  the  rays  of  his  liberal 
humour,  careless  where  they  fell, — on  the  child,  on  the  dog, 
on  the  fishes  that  played  beneath  the  wave,  on  the  cricket 
that  chirped  amidst  the  grass;  the  woodpecker  tapped  the 
tree,  and  the  cripple's  merry  voice  answered  it  in  bird-like 
mimicry.  To  this  riot  of  genial  babble  there  was  a  listener, 
of  whom  neither  grandfather  nor  grandchild  was  aware.  Con- 
cealed by  thick  brushwood  a  few  paces  farther  on,  a  young 
angler,  who  might  be  five  or  six  and  twenty,  had  seated  him- 
self, just  before  the  arrival  of  our  vagrant  to  those  banks  and 
waters,  for  the  purpose  of  changing  an  unsuccessful  fly.  At 
the  sound  of  voices,  perhaps  suspecting  an  unlicensed  rival, — 
for  that  part  of  the  stream  was  preserved, — he  had  suspended 
his  task,  and  noiselessly  put  aside  the  clustering  leaves  to 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  175 

the  scholar  felt  much  interested  and  somewhat  puzzled. 
"Who  and  what  could  they  be?  so  unlike  foot  wayfarers!  " 

On  the  other  hand,  too,  Waife  took  a  liking  to  the  courte- 
ous young  man,  and  conceived  a  sincere  pity  for  his  physical 
affliction.  But  he  did  not  for  those  reasons  depart  from  the 
discreet  caution  he  had  prescribed  to  himself  in  seeking  new 
fortunes  and  shunning  old  perils,  so  he  turned  the  subject. 

"You  are  an  angler,  sir?  I  suppose  the  trout  in  the  stream 
run  small?" 

"  Not  very :  a  little  higher  up  I  have  caught  them  at  four 
pounds  weight." 

WAIFE.  —  "There  goes  a  fine  fish  yonder, —  see!  balancing 
himself  between  those  weeds." 

OXONIAN.  — "  Poor  fellow,  let  him  be  safe  to-day.  After 
all,  it  is  a  cruel  sport,  and  I  should  break  myself  of  it.  But 
it  is  strange  that  whatever  our  love  for  Nature  we  always 
seek  some  excuse  for  trusting  ourselves  alone  to  her.  A  gun, 
a  rod,  a  sketch-book,  a  geologist's  hammer,  an  entomologist's 
net,  a  something." 

WAIFE.  —  "  Is  it  not  because  all  our  ideas  would  run  wild 
if  not  concentrated  on  a  definite  pursuit?  Fortune  and  Na- 
ture are  earnest  females,  though  popular  beauties;  and  they 
do  not  look  upon  coquettish  triflers  in  the  light  of  genuine 
wooers." 

The  Oxonian,  who,  in  venting  his  previous  remark,  had 
thought  it  likely  he  should  be  above  his  listener's  comprehen- 
sion, looked  surprised.  What  pursuits,  too,  had  this  one- 
eyed  philosopher? 

"You  have  a  definite  pursuit,  sir?  " 

"I  —  alas !  when  a  man  moralizes,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  has 
known  error:  it  is  because  I  have  been  a  trifler  that  I  rail 
against  triflers.  And  talking  of  that,  time  flies,  and  we  must 
be  off  and  away." 

Sophy  re-tied  the  bundle.  Sir  Isaac,  on  whom,  meanwhile, 
she  had  bestowed  the  remains  of  the  chicken,  jumped  up  and 
described  a  circle. 

"I  wish  you  success  in  your  pursuit,  whatever  it  be,"  stut- 
tered out  the  angler. 


176  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH   IT? 

"And  I  no  less  heartily,  sir,  wish  you  success  in  yours." 
"Mine I     Success  there  is  beyond  my  power." 
"How,  sir?    Does  it  rest  so  much  with  others?" 
"No,  my  failure  is  in  myself.     My  career  should  be  the 
Church,  my  pursuit  the  cure  of  souls,  and  —  and  —  this  piti- 
ful infirmity !     How  can  I  speak  "the  Divine  Word  —  I  —  I  — 
a  stutterer ! " 

The  young  man  did  not  pause  for  an  answer,  but  plunged 
through  the  brushwood  that  bespread  the  banks  of  the  rill, 
and  his  hurried  path  could  be  traced  by  the  wave  of  the  foli- 
age through  which  he  forced  his  way. 

"We  all  have  our  burdens,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  as  Sir 
Isaac  took  up  the  bundle  and  stalked  on,  placid  and  refreshed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  nomad,  entering  into  civilized  life,  adopts  its  arts,  shaves  his  poodle,  and 
puts  on  a  black  coat.  —  Hints  at  the  process  by  which  a  Cast-off  exalts  him- 
self into  a  Take-in. 


AT  twilight  they  stopped  at  a  quiet  inn  within  eight  miles 
of  Gatesboro'.  Sophy,  much  tired,  was  glad  to  creep  to  bed. 

Waife  sat  up  long  after  her;  and,  in  preparation  for  the 
eventful  morrow,  washed  and  shaved  Sir  Isaac.  You  would 
not  have  known  the  dog  again;  he  was  dazzling.  Not  Ulys- 
ses, rejuvenated  by  Pallas  Athene,  could  have  been  more 
changed  for  the  better.  His  flanks  revealed  a  skin  most 
daintily  mottled;  his  tail  became  leonine,  with  an  imperial 
tuft;  his  mane  fell  in  long  curls  like  the  beard  of  a  Ninevite 
king;  his  boots  were  those  of  a  courtier  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
II. ;  his  eyes  looked  forth  in  dark  splendour  from  locks  white 
as  the  driven  snow.  This  feat  performed,  Waife  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  righteous,  and  Sir  Isaac,  stretched  on  the  floor 
beside  the  bed,  licked  his  mottled  flanks  and  shivered:  "il 
faut  souffrir  pour  etre  beau."  Much  marvelling,  Sophy  the 


WHAT  WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  177 

next  morning  beheld  the  dog ;  but,  before  she  was  up,  Waif e 
had  paid  the  bill  and  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  road,  impa- 
tient to  start.  He  did  not  heed  her  exclamation,  half  compas- 
sionate, half  admiring;  he  was  absorbed  in  thought.  Thus 
they  proceeded  slowly  on  till  within  two  miles  of  the  town, 
and  then  Waife  turned  aside,  entered  a  wood,  and  there,  with 
the  aid  of  Sophy,  put  the  dog  upon  a  deliberate  rehearsal  of 
the  anticipated  drama.  The  dog  was  not  in  good  spirits,  but 
he  went  through  his  part  with  mechanical  accuracy,  though 
slight  enthusiasm. 

"He  is  to  be  relied  upon,  in  spite  of  his  French  origin," 
said  Waife.  "  All  national  prejudice  fades  before  the  sense 
of  a  common  interest.  And  we  shall  always  find  more  gen- 
uine solidity  of  character  in  a  French  poodle  than  in  an  Eng- 
lish mastiff,  whenever  a  poodle  is  of  use  to  us  and  the  mastiff 
is  not.  But  oh,  waste  of  care !  oh,  sacrifice  of  time  to  empty 
names !  oh,  emblem  of  fashionable  education !  It  never  struck 
me  before, —  does  it  not,  child  though  thou  art,  strike  thee 
now,  —  by  the  necessities  of  our  drama,  this  animal  must  be  a 
French  dog?  " 

"Well,  Grandfather?" 

"  And  we  have  given  him  an  English  name !  Precious  re- 
sult of  our  own  scholastic  training,  taught  at  preparatory 
academies  precisely  that  which  avails  us  naught  when  we  are 
to  face  the  world!  What  is  to  be  done?  Unlearn  him  his 
own  cognomen, —  teach  him  another  name, — too  late,  too 
late.  We  cannot  afford  the  delay." 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  should  be  called  any  name  at  all.  He 
observes  your  signs  just  as  well  without." 

"If  I  had  but  discovered  that  at  the  beginning.  Pity! 
Such  a  fine  name  too.  Sir  Isaac !  Vanitas  vanitatum  !  What 
desire  chiefly  kindles  the  ambitious?  To  create  a  name, — 
perhaps  bequeath  a  title, — exalt  into  Sir  Isaacs  a  progeny  of 
Mops!  And,  after  all,  it  is  possible  (let  us  hope  it  m  this 
instance)  that  a  sensible  young  dog  may  learn  his  letters  and 
shoulder  his  musket  just  as  well,  though  all  the  appellations 
by  which  humanity  knows  him  be  condensed  into  a  pitiful 
monosyllable.  Nevertheless  (as  you  will  find  when  you  are 

VOL.  I. 12 


178  WHAT   WILL    HE   DO   WITH   IT? 

older),  people  are  obliged  in  practice  to  renounce  for  them- 
selves the  application  of  those  rules  which  they  philosophi- 
cally prescribe  for  others.  Thus,  while  I  grant  that  a  change 
of  name  for  that  dog  is  a  question  belonging  to  the  policy  of 
Ifs  and  Buts,  commonly  called  the  policy  of  Expediency, 
about  which  one  may  differ  from  others  and  one's  own  self 
every  quarter  of  an  hour,  a  change  of  name  for  me  belongs  to 
the  policy  of  Must  and  Shall;  namely  the  policy  of  Necessity, 
against  which  let  no  dog  bark, —  though  I  have  known  dogs 
howl  at  it  I  William  Waife  is  no  more:  he  is  dead;  he  is 
buried ;  and  even  Juliet  Araminta  is  the  baseless  fabric  of  a 
vision." 

Sophy  raised  inquiringly  her  blue  guileless  eyes. 

"  You  see  before  you  a  man  who  has  used  up  the  name  of 
Waife,  and  who  on  entering  the  town  of  Gatesboro'  becomes 
a  sober,  staid,  and  respectable  personage,  under  the  appella- 
tion of  Chapman.  You  are  Miss  Chapman.  Rugge  and  his 
Exhibition  'leave  not  a  wrack  behind.' ' 

Sophy  smiled,  and  then  sighed, — the  smile  for  her  grand- 
father's gay  spirits;  wherefore  the  sigh?  Was  it  that  some 
instinct  in  that  fresh,  loyal  nature  revolted  from  the  thought 
of  these  aliases,  which,  if  requisite  for  safety,  were  still  akin 
to  imposture?  If  so,  poor  child,  she  had  much  yet  to  set 
right  with  her  conscience !  All  I  can  say  is,  that  after  she 
had  smiled  she  sighed.  And  more  reasonably  might  a  reader 
ask  his  author  to  subject  a  zephyr  to  the  microscope  than  a 
female's  sigh  to  anatysis. 

"Take  the  dog  with  you,  my  dear,  back  into  the  lane;  I 
will  join  you  in  a  few  minutes.  You  are  neatly  dressed,  and, 
if  not,  would  look  so.  I,  in  this  old  coat,  have  the  air  of  a 
pedler,  so  I  will  change  it,  and  enter  the  town  of  Gatesboro' 
in  the  character  of  —  a  man  whom  you  will  soon  see  before 
you.  Leave  those  things  alone,  de-Isaacized  Sir  Isaac !  Fol- 
low your  mistress, —  go!  " 

Sophy  left  the  wood,  and  walked  on  slowly  towards  the 
town,  with  her  hand  pensively  resting  on  Sir  Isaac's  head. 
In  less  than  ten  minutes  she  was  joined  by  Waife,  attired  in 
respectable  black;  his  hat  and  shoes  well  brushed;  a  new 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  179 

green  shade  to  his  eye  j  and  with  his  finest  air  of  pere  noble. 
He  was  now  in  his  favourite  element.  HE  WAS  ACTING  :  call 
it  not  imposture.  Was  Lord  Chatham  an  impostor  when  he 
draped  his  flannels  into  the  folds  of  the  toga,  and  arranged 
the  curls  of  his  wig  so  as  to  add  more  sublime  effect  to  the 
majesty  of  his  brow  and  the  terrors  of  its  nod?  And  cer- 
tainly, considering  that  Waife,  after  all,  was  but  a  profes- 
sional vagabond,  considering  all  the  turns  and  shifts  to  which 
he  has  been  put  for  bread  and  salt,  the  wonder  is,  not  that  he 
is  full  of  stage  tricks  and  small  deceptions,  but  that  he  has 
contrived  to  retain  at  heart  so  much  childish  simplicity. 
When  a  man  for  a  series  of  years  has  only  had  his  wits  to 
live  by,  I  say  not  that  he  is  necessarily  a  rogue, —  he  may  be 
a  good  fellow ;  but  you  can  scarcely  expect  his  code  of  honour 
to  be  precisely  the  same  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney's.  Homer  ex- 
presses through  the  lips  of  Achilles  that  sublime  love  of  truth 
which  even  in  those  remote  times  was  the  becoming  charac- 
teristic of  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier.  But  then,  Achilles  is 
well  off  during  his  whole  life,  which,  though  distinguished, 
is  short.  On  the  other  hand  Ulysses,  who  is  sorely  put  to  it, 
kept  out  of  his  property  in  Ithaca,  and,  in  short,  living  on 
his  wits,  is  not  the  less  befriended  by  the  immaculate  Pallas 
because  his  wisdom  savours  somewhat  of  stage  trick  and  sharp 
practice.  And  as  to  convenient  aliases  and  white  fibs,  where 
would  have  been  the  use  of  his  wits,  if  Ulysses  had  disdained 
such  arts,  and  been  magnanimously  munched  up  by  Polyphe- 
mus? Having  thus  touched  on  the  epic  side  of  Mr.  Waife's 
character  with  the  clemency  due  to  human  nature,  but  with 
the  caution  required  by  the  interests  of  society,  permit  him 
to  resume  a  "duplex  course,"  sanctioned  by  ancient  precedent, 
but  not  commended  to  modern  imitation. 

Just  as  our  travellers  rieared  the  town,  the  screech  of  a  rail- 
way whistle  resounded  towards  the  right, —  a  long  train  rushed 
from  the  jaws  of  a  tunnel  and  shot  into  the  neighbouring 
station. 

"How  lucky!"  exclaimed  Waife;  "make  haste,  my  dear!" 
Was  he  going  to  take  the  train?  Pshaw!  he  was  at  his  jour- 
ney's end.  He  was  going  to  mix  with  the  throng  that  would 


180  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

soon  stream  through  those  white  gates  into  the  town ;  he  was 
going  to  purloin  the  respectable  appearance  of  a  passenger  by 
the  train.  And  so  well  did  he  act  the  part  of  a  bewildered 
stranger  just  vomited  forth  into  unfamiliar  places  by  one  of 
those  panting  steam  monsters, —  so  artfully,  amidst  the  busy 
competition  of  nudging  elbows,  over-bearing  shoulders,  and 
the  impedimenta  of  carpet-bags,  portmanteaus,  babies  in  arms, 
and  shin-assailing  trucks,  did  he  look  round,  consequentially, 
on  the  qui  vive,  turning  his  one  eye,  now  on  Sophy,  now  on 
Sir  Isaac,  and  griping  his  bundle  to  his  breast  as  if  he  sus- 
pected all  his  neighbours  to  be  Thugs,  condottieri,  and  swell- 
mob, —  that  in  an  instant  fly-men,  omnibus  drivers,  cads,  and 
porters  marked  him  for  their  own.  "Gatesboro'  Arms," 
"Spread  Eagle,"  "Koyal  Hotel,"  "Saracen's  Head;  very 
comfortable,  centre  of  High  Street,  opposite  the  Town 
Hall,"  —  were  shouted,  bawled,  whispered,  or  whined  into 
his  ear. 

"Is  there  an  honest  porter?"  asked  the  Comedian,  pite- 
ously.  An  Irishman  presented  himself.  "And  is  it  meself 
can  serve  your  honour?  "  —  "  Take  this  bundle,  and  walk  on 
before  me  to  the  High  Street."  —  "Could  not  I  take  the  bun- 
dle, Grandfather?  The  man  will  charge  so  much,"  said  the 
prudent  Sophy.  "Hush!  you  indeed!"  said  the  Pere  Noble, 
as  if  addressing  an  exiled  Altesse  royale, —  "you  take  a  bundle 
—  Miss  —  Chapman !  " 

They  soon  gained  the  High  Street.  Waife  examined  the 
fronts  of  the  various  inns  which  they  passed  by  with  an  eye 
accustomed  to  decipher  the  physiognomy  of  hostelries.  The 
Saracen's  Head  pleased  him,  though  its  imposing  size 
daunted  Sophy.  He  arrested  the  steps  of  the  porter,  "Fol- 
low me  close,"  and  stepped  across  the  open  threshold  into  the 
bar.  The  landlady  herself  was  there,  portly  and  imposing, 
with  an  auburn  toupet,  a  silk  gown,  a  cameo  brooch,  and  an 
ample  bosom. 

"You  have  a  private  sitting-room,  ma'am?"  said  the  Come- 
dian, lifting  his  hat.  There  are  so  many  ways  of  lifting  a 
hat, —  for  instance,  the  way  for  which  Louis  XIV.  was  so  re- 
nowned. But  the  Comedian's  way  on  the  present  occasion 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  181 

rather  resembled  that  of  the  late  Duke  of.  B ,  —  not  quite 

royal,  but  as  near  to  royalty  as  becomes  a  subject.  He  added, 
recovering  his  head, —  "And  on  the  first  floor?"  The  land- 
lady did  not  courtesy,  but  she  bowed,  emerged  from  the  bar, 
and  set  foot  on  the  broad  stairs;  then,  looking  back  gra- 
ciously, her  eyes  rested  on  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  stalked  forth 
in  advance  and  with  expansive  nostrils  sniffed.  She  hesi- 
tated. "Your  dog,  sir!  shall  Boots  take  it  round  to  the 
stables?" 

"The  stables,  ma'am  —  the  stables,  my  dear,"  turning  to 
Sophy,  with  a  smile  more  ducal  than  the  previous  bow; 
"what  would  they  say  at  home  if  they  heard  that  noble  ani- 
mal was  consigned  to  —  stables?  Ma'am,  my  dog  is  my  com- 
panion, and  as  much  accustomed  to  drawing-rooms  as  I  am 
myself."  Still  the  landlady  paused.  The  dog  might  be  ac- 
customed to  drawing-rooms,  but  her  drawing-room  was  riot 
accustomed  to  dogs.  She  had  just  laid  down  a  new  carpet. 
And  such  are  the  strange  and  erratic  affinities  in  nature, — 
such  are  the  incongruous  concatenations  in  the  cross-stitch  of 
ideas,  that  there  are  associations  between  dogs  and  carpets, 
which,  if  wrongful  to  the  owners  of  dogs,  beget  no  unreason- 
able apprehensions  in  the  proprietors  of  carpets.  So  there 
stood  the  landlady,  and  there  stood  the  dog!  and  there  they 
might  be  standing  to  this  day  had  not  the  Comedian  dissolved 
the  spell.  "Take  up  my  effects  again,"  said  he,  turning  to 
the  porter;  "doubtless  they  are  more  habituated  to  distin- 
guish between  dog  and  dog  at  the  Koyal  Hotel." 

The  landlady  was  mollified  in  a  moment.  Nor  was  it  only 
the  rivalries  that  necessarily  existed  between  the  Saracen's 
Head  and  the  Koyal  Hotel  that  had  due  weight  with  her.  A 
gentleman  who  could  not  himself  deign  to  carry  even  that 
small  bundle  must  be  indeed  a  gentleman!  Had  he  come 
with  a  portmanteau  —  even  with  a  carpet-bag  —  the  porter's 
service  would  have  been  no  evidence  of  rank;,  but  accustomed 
as  she  was  chiefly  to  gentlemen  engaged  in  commercial  pur- 
suits, it  was  new  to  her  experience, —  a  gentleman  with  effects 
so  light,  and  hands  so  aristocratically  helpless.  Herein  were 
equally  betokened  the  two  attributes  of  birth  and  wealth; 


182  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

namely,  the  habit  of  command  and  the  disdain  of  shillings. 
A  vague  remembrance  of  the  well-known  story  how  a  man 
and  his  dog  had  arrived  at  the  Granby  Hotel,  at  Harrowgate, 
and  been  sent  away  roomless  to  the  other  and  less  patrician 
establishment,  because,  while  he  had  a  dog,  he  had  not  a  ser- 
vant; when,  five  minutes  after  such  dismissal,  came  carriages 
and  lackeys  and  an  imperious  valet,  asking  for  his  grace  the 

Duke  of  A ,  who  had  walked  on  before  with  his  dog,  and 

who,  oh,  everlasting  thought  of  remorse !  had  been  sent  away 
to  bring  the  other  establishment  into  fashion, — a  vague  rem- 
iniscence of  that  story,  I  say,  flashed  upon  the  landlady's 
mind,  and  she  exclaimed,  "I  only  thought,  sir,  you  might 
prefer  the  stables;  of  course,  it  is  as  you  please.  This  way, 
sir.  He  is  a  fine  animal,  indeed,  and  seems  mild." 

"You  may  bring  up  the  bundle,  porter,"  quoth  the  Pere 
Noble.  "Take  my  arm,  my  dear;  these  steps  are  very 
steep." 

The  landlady  threw  open  the  door  of  a  handsome  sitting- 
room, —  her  best:  she  pulled  down  the  blinds  to  shut  out  the 
glare  of  the  sun;  then  retreating  to  the  threshold  awaited 
further  orders. 

"Kest  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  the  Actor,  placing  Sophy 
on  a  couch  with  that  tender  respect  for  sex  and  childhood 
which  so  specially  belongs  to  the  high-bred.  "The  room 
will  do,  ma'am.  I  will  let  you  know  later  whether  we  shall 
require  beds.  As  to  dinner,  I  am  not  particular, — a  cutlet, 
a  chicken,  what  you  please,  at  seven  o'clock.  Stay,  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  detaining  you,  but  where  does  the  Mayor 
live?" 

"  His  private  residence  is  a  mile  out  of  the  town,  but  his 
counting-house  is  just  above  the  Town  Hall, —  to  the  right, 
sir." 

"Name?" 

"Mr.  Hartopp!" 

"  Hartopp !  Ah !  to  be  sure !  Hartopp.  His  political  opin- 
ions, I  think,  are"  (ventures  at  a  guess)  "enlightened?" 

LANDLADY.  —  "  Very  much  so,  sir.  Mr.  Hartopp  is  highly 
respected." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  183 

WAIFE.  —  "  The  chief  municipal  officer  of  a  town  so  thriv- 
ing —  fine  shops  and  much  plate  glass  —  must  march  with 
the  times.  I  think  I  have  heard  that  Mr.  Hartopp  pro- 
motes the  spread  of  intelligence  and  the  propagation  of 
knowledge." 

LANDLADY  (rather  puzzled).  —  "I  dare  say,  sir.  The  Mayor 
takes  great  interest  in  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum  and  Literary 
Institute." 

WAIFE.  —  "  Exactly  what  I  should  have  presumed  from  his 
character  and  station.  I  will  detain  you  no  longer,  ma'am  " 
(ducal  bow).  The  landlady  descended  the  stairs.  Was  her 
guest  a  candidate  for  the  representation  of  the  town  at  the 
next  election?  March  with  the  times!  —  spread  of  intelli- 
gence! All  candidates  she  ever  knew  had  that  way  of  ex- 
pressing themselves,  —  "March"  and  "Spread."  Not  an 
address  had  parliamentary  aspirant  put  forth  to  the  freemen 
and  electors  of  Gatesboro'  but  what  "March"  had  been  in- 
troduced by  the  candidate,  and  "  Spread "  been  suggested  by 
the  committee.  Still  she  thought  that  her  guest,  upon  the 
whole,  looked  and  bowed  more  like  a  member  of  the  Upper 
House,  —  perhaps  one  of  the  amiable  though  occasionally 
prosy  peers  who  devote  the  teeth  of  wisdom  to  the  cracking 
of  those  very  hard  nuts,  "How  to  educate  the  masses," 
"What  to  do  with  our  criminals,"  and  such  like  problems, 
upon  which  already  have  been  broken  so  many  jawbones 
tough  as  that  with  which  Samson  slew  the  Philistines. 

"Oh,  Grandfather!"  sighed  Sophy,  "what  are  you  about? 
We  shall  be  ruined, — you,  too,  who  are  so  careful  not  to  get 
into  debt.  And  what  have  we  left  to  pay  the  people  here?" 

"Sir  Isaac!  and  THIS!"  returned  the  Comedian,  touching 
his  forehead.  "Do  not  alarm  yourself:  stay  here  and  repose; 
and  don't  let  Sir  Isaac  out  of  the  room  on  any  account! " 

He  took  off  his  hat,  brushed  the  nap  carefully  with  his 
sleeve,  replaced  it  on  his  head, — not  jauntily  aside,  not  like 
a  jeune  premier,  but  with  equilateral  brims,  and  in  composed 
fashion,  like  a  pere  noble ;  then,  making  a  sign  to  Sir  Isaac 
to  rest  quiet,  he  passed  to  the  door;  there  he  halted,  and 
turning  towards  Sophy,  and,  meeting  her  wistful  eyes,  his 


184  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

own  eye  moistened.     "  Ah !  "   he  murmured,   "  Heaven  grant 
I  may  succeed  now,  for  if  I  do,  then  you  shall  indeed  be  a 
little  lady!" 
He  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   X. 

SHOWING  with  what  success  Gentleman  Waife  assumes  the  pleasing  part  of 
friend  to  the  enlightenment  of  the  age  and  the  progress  of  the  people. 

ON  the  landing-place,  Waife  encountered  the  Irish  porter, 
who,  having  left  the  bundle  in  the  drawing-room,  was  wait- 
ing patiently  to  be  paid  for  his  trouble. 

The  Comedian  surveyed  the  good-humoured  shrewd  face, 
on  every  line  of  which  was  writ  the  golden  maxim,  "Take 
things  asy."  "I  beg  your  pardon,  my  friend;  I  had  almost 
forgotten  you.  Have  you  been  long  in  this  town?" 

"Four  years,  and  long  life  to  your  honour!  " 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Hartopp,  the  Mayor?" 

"Is  it  his  worship  the  Mayor?  Sure  and  it  is  the  Mayor 
as  has  made  a  man  o'  Mike  Callaghan." 

The  Comedian  evinced  urbane  curiosity  to  learn  the  history 
of  that  process,  and  drew  forth  a  grateful  tale.  Four  summers 
ago  Mike  had  resigned  the  "  first  gem  of  the  sea  "  in  order  to 
assist  in  making  hay  for  a  Saxon  taskmaster. 

Mr.  Hartopp,  who  farmed  largely,  had  employed  him  in 
that  rural  occupation.  Seized  by  a  malignant  fever,  Mr. 
Hartopp  had  helped  him  through  it,  and  naturally  conceived 
a  liking  for  the  man  he  helped.  Thus,  as  Mike  became  con- 
valescent, instead  of  passing  the  poor  man  back  to  his  own 
country,  which  at  that  time  gave  little  employment  to  the  sur- 
plus of  its  agrarian  population  beyond  an  occasional  shot  at  a 
parson, —  an  employment,  though  animated,  not  lucrative,  he 
exercised  Mike's  returning  strength  upon  a  few  light  jobs  in 
his  warehouse;  and  finally,  Mike  marrying  imprudently  the 
daughter  of  a  Gatesboro'  operative,  Mr.  Hartopp  set  him  up 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  185 

in  life  as  a  professional  messenger  and  porter,  patronized  by 
the  Corporation.  The  narrative  made  it  evident  that  Mr. 
Hartopp  was  a  kind  and  worthy  man,  and  the  Comedian's 
heart  warmed  towards  him. 

"  An  honour  to  our  species,  this  Mr.  Hartopp !  "  said  Waif e, 
striking  his  staff  upon  the  floor;  "I  covet  his  acquaintance. 
Would  he  see  you  if  you  called  at  his  counting-house?  " 

Mike  replied  in  the  affirmative  with  eager  pride.  "Mr. 
Hartopp  would  see  him  at  once.  Sure,  did  not  the  Mayor 
know  that  time  was  money?  Mr.  Hartopp  was  not  a  man  to 
keep  the  poor  waiting." 

"Go  dowa  and  stay  outside  the  hall  door;  you  shall  take  a 
note  for  me  to  the  Mayor." 

Waife  then  passed  into  the  bar,  and  begged  the  favour  of  a 
sheet  of  note-paper.  The  landlady  seated  him  at  her  own 
desk,  and  thus  wrote  the  Comedian:  — 

"  Mr.  Chapman  presents  his  compliments  to  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro', 
and  requests  the  honour  of  a  very  short  interview.  Mr.  Chapman's 
deep  interest  in  the  permanent  success  of  those  literary  institutes  which 
are  so  distinguished  a  feature  of  this  enlightened  age,  and  Mr.  Mayor's 
well-known  zeal  in  the  promotion  of  those  invaluable  societies,  must  be 
Mr.  Chapman's  excuse  for  the  liberty  he  ventures  to  take  in  this  request. 
Mr.  C.  may  add  that  of  late  he  has  earnestly  directed  his  attention  to 
the  best  means  of  extracting  new  uses  from  those  noble  but  undeveloped 
institutions. 

SARACEN'S  HEAD,  etc. 

This  epistle,  duly  sealed  and  addressed,  Waife  delivered  to 
the  care  of  Mike  Callaghan ;  and  simultaneously  he  astounded 
that  functionary  with  no  less  a  gratuity  than  half  a  crown. 
Cutting  short  the  fervent  blessings  which  this  generous  dona- 
tion naturally  called  forth,  the  Comedian  said,  with  his  hap- 
piest combination  of  suavity  and  loftiness,  "  And  should  the 
Mayor  ask  you  what  sort  of  person  I  am, — for  I  have  not  the 
honour  to  be  known  to  him,  and  there  are  so  many  adventur- 
ers about,  that  he  might  reasonably  expect  me  to  be  one, — 
perhaps  you  can  say  that  I  don't  look  like  a  person  he  need 
be  afraid  to  admit.  You  know  a  gentleman  by  sight!  Bring 


186  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

back  an  answer  as  soon  as  may  be;  perhaps  I  sha'n't  stay  long 
in  the  town.  You  will  find  me  in  the  High  Street,  looking 
at  the  shops." 

The  porter  took  to  his  legs,  impatient  to  vent  his  overflow- 
ing heart  upon  the  praises  of  this  munificent  stranger.  A 
gentleman,  indeed!  Mike  should  think  so!  If  Mike's  good 
word  with  the  Mayor  was  worth  money,  Gentleman  Waife 
had  put  his  half-crown  out  upon  famous  interest. 

The  Comedian  strolled  along  the  High  Street,  and  stopped 
before  a  stationer's  shop,  at  the  window  of  which  was  dis- 
played a  bill,  entitled, — 

GATESBOKO'  ATHENAEUM  AND  LITERARY  INSTITUTE. 


LECTURE    ON    CONCHOLOGY. 

BY  PROFESSOR  LONG. 
Author  of  "  Researches  into  the  Natural  History  of  Limpets." 

Waife  entered  the  shop,  and  lifted  his  hat, —  "Permit  me, 
sir,  to  look  at  that  hand-bill." 

"Certainly,  sir;  but  the  lecture  is  over;  you  can  see  by 
the  date :  it  came  off  last  week.  We  allow  the  bills  of  pre- 
vious proceedings  at  our  Athenaeum  to  be  exposed  at  the  win- 
dow till  the  new  bills  are  prepared, — keeps  the  whole  thing 
alive,  sir." 

"Conchology,"  said  the  Comedian,  "is  a  subject  which  re- 
quires deep  research,  and  on  which  a  learned  man  may  say 
much  without  fear  of  contradiction.  But  how  far  is  Gates- 
boro'  from  the  British  Ocean?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  sir, — a  long  way." 

"Then,  as  shells  are  not  familiar  to  the  youthful  remem- 
brances of  your  fellow-townsmen,  possibly  the  lecturer  may 
have  found  an  audience  rather  select  than  numerous." 

"  It  was  a  very  attentive  audience,  sir,  and  highly  respecta- 
ble: Miss  Grieve's  young  ladies  (the  genteelest  seminary  in 
the  town)  attended." 


WHAT   WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT?  1ST 

WAIFE.  —  "Highly  creditable  to  the  young  ladies.  But, 
pardon  me,  is  your  Athenaeum  a  Mechanics'  institute?" 

SHOPMAN.  —  "  It  was  so  called  at  first.  But,  somehow  or 
other,  the  mere  operatives  fell  off,  and  it  was  thought  advisa- 
ble to  change  the  word  'Mechanics' '  into  the  word  'Literary.' 
Gatesboro'  is  not  a  manufacturing  town,  and  the  mechanics 
here  do  not  realize  the  expectations  of  that  taste  for  abstract 
science  on  which  the  originators  of  these  societies  founded 
their  —  " 

WAIFE  (insinuatingly  interrupting).  —  "Their  calculations 
of  intellectual  progress  and  their  tables  of  pecuniary  return. 
Few  of  these  societies,  I  am  told,  are  really  self-supporting : 
I  suppose  Professor  Long  is !  —  and  if  he  resides  in  Gates- 
boro', and  writes  on  limpets,  he  is  probably  a  man  of  inde- 
pendent fortune." 

SHOPMAN.  — "  Why,  sir,  the  professor  was  engaged  from 
London, — five  guineas  and  his  travelling  expenses.  The 
funds  of  the  society  could  ill  afford  such  outlay ;  but  we  have 
a  most  worthy  mayor,  who,  assisted  by  his  foreman,  Mr. 
Williams,  our  treasurer,  is,  I  may  say,  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  institute." 

"A  literary  man  himself,  your  mayor?" 

The  shopman  smiled.  "Not  much  in  that  way,  sir;  but 
anything  to  enlighten  the  working  classes.  This  is  Professor 
Long's  great  work  upon  limpets,  two  vols.  post  octavo.  The 
Mayor  has  just  presented  it  to  the  library  of  the  institute. 
I  was  cutting  the  leaves  when  you  came  in." 

"  Very  prudent  in  you,  sir.  If  limpets  were  but  able  to 
read  printed  character  in  the  English  tongue,  this  work 
would  have  more  interest  for  them  than  the  ablest  investiga- 
tions upon  the  political  and  social  history  of  man.  But," 
added  the  Comedian,  shaking  his  head  mournfully,  "the  hu- 
man species  is  not  testaceous ;  and  what  the  history  of  man 
might  be  to  a  limpet,  the  history  of  limpets  is  to  a  man." 
So  saying,  Mr.  Waife  bought  a  sheet  of  cardboard  and  some 
gilt  foil,  relifted  his  hat,  and  walked  out. 

The  shopman  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully;  he  glanced 
from  his  window  at  the  form  of  the  receding  stranger,  and 


188  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

mechanically  resumed  the  task  of  cutting  those  leaves,  which, 
had  the  volumes  reached  the  shelves  of  the  library  uncut, 
would  have  so  remained  to  the  crack  of  doom. 

Mike  Callaghan  now  came  in  sight,  striding  fast,  "Mr. 
Mayor  sends  his  love  —  bother-o'-me  —  his  respex;  and  will 
be  happy  to  see  your  honour." 

In  three  minutes  more  the  Comedian  was  seated  in  a  little 
parlour  that  adjoined  Mr.  Hartopp's  counting-house, —  Mr. 
Hartopp  seated  also,  vis-a-vis.  The  Mayor  had  one  of  those 
countenances  upon  which  good-nature  throws  a  sunshine  softer 
than  Claude  ever  shed  upon  canvas.  Josiah  Hartopp  had 
risen  in  life  by  little  other  art  than  that  of  quiet  kindliness. 
As  a  boy  at  school,  he  had  been  ever  ready  to  do  a  good  turn 
to  his  school-fellows;  and  his  school-fellows  at  last  formed 
themselves  into  a  kind  of  police,  for  the  purpose  of  protecting 
Jos.  Hartopp's  pence  and  person  from  the  fists  and  fingers  of 
each  other.  He  was  evidently  so  anxious  to  please  his  mas- 
ter, not  from  fear  of  the  rod,  but  the  desire  to  spare  that 
worthy  man  the  pain  of  inflicting  it,  that  he  had  more  trouble 
taken  with  his  education  than  was  bestowed  on  the  brightest 
intellect  that  school  ever  reared;  and  where  other  boys  were 
roughly  flogged,  Jos.  Hartopp  was  soothingly  patted  on  the 
head,  and  told  not  to  be  cast  down,  but  try  again.  The  same 
even-handed  justice  returned  the  sugared  chalice  to  his  lips 
in  his  apprenticeship  to  an  austere  leather-seller,  who,  not 
bearing  the  thought  to  lose  sight  of  so  mild  a  face,  raised 
him  into  partnership,  and  ultimately  made  him  his  son-in- 
law  and  residuary  legatee.  Then  Mr.  Hartopp  yielded  to  the 
advice  of  friends  who  desired  his  exaltation,  and  from  a 
leather-seller  became  a  tanner.  Hides  themselves  softened 
their  asperity  to  that  gentle  dealer,  and  melted  into  golden 
fleeces.  He  became  rich  enough  to  hire  a  farm  for  health 
and  recreation.  He  knew  little  of  husbandry,  but  he  won 
the  heart  of  a  bailiff  who  might  have  reared  a  turnip  from  a 
deal  table.  Gradually  the  farm  became  his  fee-simple,  and 
the  farmhouse  expanded  into  a  villa.  Wealth  and  honours 
flowed  in  from  a  brimmed  horn.  The  surliest  man  in  the 
town  would  have  been  ashamed  of  saying  a  rude  thing  to  Jos. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  189 

Hartopp.  If  he  spoke  in  public,  though  he  hummed  and 
hawed  lamentably,  no  one  was  so  respectfully  listened  to. 
As  for  the  parliamentary  representation  of  the  town,  he  could 
have  returned  himself  for  one  seat  and  Mike  Callaghan  for 
the  other,  had  he  been  so  disposed.  But  he  was  too  full  of 
the  milk  of  humanity  to  admit  into  his  veins  a  drop  from  the 
gall  of  party.  He  suffered  others  to  legislate  for  his  native 
land,  and  (except  on  one  occasion  when  he  had  been  per- 
suaded to  assist  in  canvassing,  not  indeed  the  electors  of 
Gatesboro',  but  those  of  a  distant  town  in  which  he  possessed 
some  influence,  on  behalf  of  a  certain  eminent  orator)  Jos. 
Hartopp  was  only  visible  in  politics  whenever  Parliament 
was  to  be  petitioned  in  favour  of  some  humane  measure,  or 
against  a  tax  that  would  have  harassed  the  poor. 

If  anything  went  wrong  with  him  in  his  business,  the 
whole  town  combined  to  set  it  right  for  him.  Was  a  child 
born  to  him,  Gatesboro'  rejoiced  as  a  mother.  Did  measles 
or  scarlatina  afflict  his  neighbourhood,  the  first  anxiety  of 
Gatesboro'  was  for  Mr.  Hartopp's  nursery.  N"o  one  would 
have  said  Mrs.  Hartopp's  nursery;  and  when  in  such  a  de- 
partment the  man's  name  supersedes  the  woman's,  can  more 
be  said  in  proof  of  the  tenderness  he  excites?  In  short,  Jos. 
Hartopp  was  a  notable  instance  of  a  truth  not  commonly  rec- 
ognized; namely,  that  affection  is  power,  and  that,  if  you  do 
make  it  thoroughly  and  unequivocally  clear  that  you  love  your 
neighbours,  though  it  may  not  be  quite  so  well  as  you  love 
yourself,  —  still,  cordially  and  disinterestedly,  you  will  find 
your  neighbours  much  better  fellows  than  Mrs.  Grundy  gives 
them  credit  for, — but  always  provided  that  your  talents  be 
not  such  as  to  excite  their  envy,  nor  your  opinions  such  as  to 
offend  their  prejudices. 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "  You  take  an  interest,  you  say,  in  liter- 
ary institutes,  and  have  studied  the  subject?  " 

THE  COMEDIAN.  —  "  Of  late,  those  institutes  have  occupied 
my  thoughts  as  representing  the  readiest  means  of  collecting 
liberal  ideas  into  a  profitable  focus." 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "Certainly  it  is  a  great  thing  to  bring 
classes  together  in  friendly  union." 


100  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

THE  COMEDIAN.  — "For  laudable  objects." 
MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "  To  cultivate  their  understandings." 
THE  COMEDIAN.  — "To  warm  their  hearts." 
Mu.  HARTOPF.  —  "To  give  them  useful  knowledge." 
THE  COMEDIAN.  —  "And  pleasurable  sensations." 
MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "In  a  word,  to  instruct  them." 
THE  COMEDIAN.  — "And  to  amuse." 
"  Eh ! "  said  the  Mayor, —  "  amuse ! " 

Now,  every  one  about  the  person  of  this  amiable  man  was 
on  the  constant  guard  to  save  him  from  the  injurious  effects 
of  his  own  benevolence ;  and  accordingly  his  foreman,  hearing 
that  he  was  closeted  with  a  stranger,  took  alarm,  and  entered 
on  pretence  of  asking  instructions  about  an  order  for  hides, — 
in  reality,  to  glower  upon  the  intruder,  and  keep  his  master's 
hands  out  of  imprudent  pockets. 

Mr.  Hartopp,  who,  though  not  brilliant,  did  not  want  for 
sense,  and  was  a  keener  observer  than  was  generally  supposed, 
divined  the  kindly  intentions  of  his  assistant.  "  A  gentleman 
interested  in  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum.  My  foreman,  sir, 
—  Mr.  Williams,  the  treasurer  of  our  institute.  Take  a 
chair,  Williams." 

"  You  said  to  amuse,  Mr.  Chapman,  but  —  " 
"  You  did  not  find  Professor  Long  on  conchology  amusing." 
"Why,"  said  the  Mayor,  smiling  blandly,  "I  myself  am  not 
a  man  of  science,  and  therefore  his  lecture,  though  profound, 
was  a  little  dry  to  me." 

"Must  it  not  have  been  still  more  dry  to  your  workmen, 
Mr.  Mayor?" 

"They  did  not  attend,"  said  Williams.  "Up-hill  task  we 
have  to  secure  the  Gatesboro'  mechanics,  when  anything 
really  solid  is  to  be  addressed  to  their  understandings." 

"  Poor  things,  they  are  so  tired  at  night, "  said  the  Mayor, 
compassionately;  " but  they  wish  to  improve  themselves,  and 
they  take  books  from  the  library." 

"  Novels, "  quoth  the  stern  Williams :  "  it  will  be  long  be- 
fore they  take  out  that  valuable  'History  of  Limpets.'  " 

"  If  a  lecture  were  as  amusing  as  a  novel,  would  not  they 
attend  it?"  asked  the  Comedian. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  191 

"I  suppose  they  would,"  returned  Mr.  Williams.  "But 
our  object  is  to  instruct;  and  instruction,  sir  —  " 

"Could  be  made  amusing.  If,  for  instance,  the  lecturer 
could  produce  a  live  shell-fish,  and,  by  showing  what  kind- 
ness can  do  towards  developing  intellect  and  affection  in  be- 
ings without  soul, —  make  man  himself  more  kind  to  his 
fellow-man?" 

Mr.  Williams  laughed  grimly.     "Well,  sir!" 

"This  is  what  I  should  propose  to  do." 

"  With  a  shell-fish !  "  cried  the  Mayor. 

"No,  sir;  with  a  creature  of  nobler  attributes, — A  DOG!" 

The  listeners  stared  at  each  other  like  dumb  animals  as 
Waife  continued, —  "By  winning  interest  for  the  individuality 
of  a  gifted  quadruped,  I  should  gradually  create  interest  in 
the  natural  history  of  its  species.  I  should  lead  the  audience 
on  to  listen  to  comparisons  with  other  members  of  the  great 
family  which  once  associated  with  Adam.  I  should  lay  the 
foundation  for  an  instructive  course  of  natural  history,  and 
from  vertebrated  mammifers  who  knows  but  we  might  grad- 
ually arrive  at  the  nervous  system  of  the  molluscous  division, 
and  produce  a  sensation  by  the  production  of  a  limpet?" 

"Theoretical,"  said  Mr.  Williams. 

"  Practical,  sir ;  since  I  take  it  for  granted  that  the  Athe- 
naeum, at  present,  is  rather  a  tax  upon  the  richer  subscribers, 
including  Mr.  Mayor." 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  said  the  mild  Hartopp.  Williams 
looked  towards  his  master  with  unspeakable  love,  and  groaned. 
"Nothing  indeed  — oh! " 

"These  societies  should  be  wholly  self-supporting,"  said  the 
Comedian,  "and  inflict  no  pecuniary  loss  upon  Mr.  Mayor." 

"Certainly,"  said  Williams,  "that  is  the  right  principle. 
Mr.  Mayor  should  be  protected." 

"  And  if  I  show  you  how  to  make  these  societies  self-sup- 
porting —  " 

"We  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"I  propose,  then,  to  give  an  exhibition  at  your  rooms." 

Mr.  Williams  nudged  the  Mayor,  and  coughed,  the  Come- 
dian not  appearing  to  remark  cough  nor  nudge. 


192  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"Of  course  gratuitously.  I  am  not  a  professional  lecturer, 
gentlemen." 

Mr.  Williams  looked  charmed  to  hear  it. 

"  And  when  I  have  made  my  first  effort  successful,  as  I  feel 
sure  it  will  be,  I  will  leave  it  to  you,  gentlemen,  to  continue 
my  undertaking.  But  I  cannot  stay  long  here.  If  the  day 
after  to-morrow  —  " 

"  That  is  our  ordinary  soiree  night, "  said  the  Mayor.  "  But 
you  said  a  dog,  sir, —  dogs  not  admitted, —  eh,  Williams?" 

MR.  WILLIAMS.  —  "A  mere  by-law,  which  the  sub-commit- 
tee can  suspend  if  necessary.  But  would  not  the  introduction 
of  a  live  animal  be  less  dignified  than  —  " 

"A  dead  failure,"  put  in  the  Comedian,  gravely.  The 
Mayor  would  have  smiled,  but  he  was  afraid  of  doing  so  lest 
he  might  hurt  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Williams,  who  did  not 
seem  to  take  the  joke. 

"We  are  a  purely  intellectual  body,"  said  the  latter  gentle- 
man, "and  a  dog  —  " 

"A  learned  dog,  I  presume,"  observed  the  Mayor. 

MR.  WILLIAMS  (nodding).  —  "Might  form  a  dangerous  pre- 
cedent for  the  introduction  of  other  quadrupeds.  We  might 
thus  descend  even  to  the  level  of  a  learned  pig.  We  are  not  a 
menagerie,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  " 

"  Chapman, "  said  the  Mayor,  urbanely. 

"Enough,"  said  the  Comedian,  rising  with  his  grand  air; 
"if  I  considered  myself  at  liberty,  gentlemen,  to  say  who 
and  what  I  am,  you  would  be  sure  that  I  am  not  trifling 
with  what  /  consider  a  very  grave  and  important  subject. 
As  to  suggesting  anything  derogatory  to  the  dignity  of  sci- 
ence, and  the  eminent  repute  of  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum, 
it  would  be  idle  fo  vindicate  myself.  These  gray  hairs 
are  —  " 

He  did  not  conclude  that  sentence,  save  by  a  slight  wave  of 
the  hand.  The  two  burgesses  bowed  reverentially,  and  the 
Comedian  went  on,  — 

"But  when  you  speak  of  precedent,  Mr.  Williams,  allow 
me  to  refer  you  to  precedents  in  point.  Aristotle  wrote  to 
Alexander  the  Great  for  animals  to  exhibit  to  the  Literary 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH   IT?  193 

Institute  of  Athens.  At  the  colleges  in  Egypt  lectures  were 
delivered  on  a  dog  called  Anubis,  as  inferior,  I  boldly  as- 
sert, to  that  dog  which  I  have  referred  to,  as  an  Egyptian 
College  to  a  British  Institute.  The  ancient  Etrurians,  as  is 
shown  by  the  erudite  Schweighauser  in  that  passage  —  you 
understand  Greek,  I  presume,  Mr.  Williams?" 

Mr.  Williams  could  not  say  he  did. 

THE  COMEDIAN.  —  "  Then  I  will  not  quote  that  passage  in 
Schweighauser  upon  the  Molossian  dogs  in  general,  and  the 
dog  of  Alcibiades  in  particular.  But  it  proves  beyond  a 
doubt,  that,  in  every  ancient  literary  institute,  learned  dogs 
were  highly  estimated;  and  there  was  even  a  philosophical 
Academy  called  the  Cynic, — that  is,  Doggish,  or  Dog-school, 
of  which  Diogenes  was  the  most  eminent  professor.  He, 
you  know,  went  about  with  a  lantern  looking  for  an  hon- 
est man,  and  could  not  find  one!  Why?  Because  the  Society 
of  Dogs  had  raised  his  standard  of  human  honesty  to  an  im- 
practicable height.  But  I  weary  you;  otherwise  I  could  lec- 
ture on  in  this  way  for  the  hour  together,  if  you  think  the 
Gatesboro'  operatives  prefer  erudition  to  amusement." 

"  A  great  scholar,"  whispered  Mr.  Williams.  —  Aloud :  " and 
I  've  nothing  to  say  against  your  precedents,  sir.  I  think 
you  have  made  out  that  part  of  the  case.  But,  after  all,  a 
learned  dog  is  not  so  very  uncommon  as  to  be  in  itself  the 
striking  attraction  which  you  appear  to  suppose." 

"  It  is  not  the  mere  learning  of  my  dog  of  which  I  boast, " 
replied  the  Comedian.  "  Dogs  may  be  learned,  and  men  too ; 
but  it  is  the  way  that  learning  is  imparted,  whether  by  dog 
or  man,  for  the  edification  of  the  masses,  in  order,  as  Pope 
expresses  himself,  'to  raise  the  genius  and  to  mend  the 
heart : '  that  alone  adorns  the  possessor,  exalts  the  species, 
interests  the  public,  and  commands  the  respect  of  such  judges 
as  I  see  before  me."  The  grand  bow. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Williams,  hesitatingly,  "sentiments  that 
do  honour  to  your  head  and  heart;  and  if  we  could,  in  the 
first  instance,  just  see  the  dog  privately." 

u Nothing  easier !"  said  the  Comedian.  "Will  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  meet  him  at  tea  this  evening?  " 

VOL.  I.  — 13 


194  WHAT   WILL  HE   DO   WITH   IT? 

;< Rather  will  you  not  come  and  take  tea  at  my  house?" 
said  the  Mayor,  with  a  shy  glance  towards  Mr.  Williams. 

THE  COMEDIAN.  — "You  are  very  kind;  but  my  time  is  so 
occupied  that  I  have  long  since  made  it  a  rule  to  decline  all 
private  invitations  out  of  my  own  home.  At  my  years,  Mr. 
Mayor,  one  may  be  excused  for  taking  leave  of  society  and 
its  forms ;  but  you  are  comparatively  young  men.  I  presume 
on  the  authority  of  these  gray  hairs,  and  I  shall  expect  you 
this  evening, —  say  at  nine  o'clock."  The  Actor  waved  his 
hand  graciously  and  withdrew. 

"A  scholar  AND  a  gentleman,"  said  Williams,  emphati- 
cally. And  the  Mayor,  thus  authorized  to  allow  vent  to  his 
kindly  heart,  added,  "  A  humourist,  and  a  pleasant  one.  Per- 
haps he  is  right,  and  our  poor  operatives  would  thank  us 
more  for  a  little  innocent  amusement  than  for  those  lectures, 
which  they  may  be  excused  for  thinking  rather  dull,  since 
even  you  fell  asleep  when  Professor  Long  got  into  the  multi- 
locular  shell  of  the  very  first  class  of  cephalous  mollusca;  and 
it  is  my  belief  that  harmless  laughter  has  a  good  moral  effect 
upon  the  working  class, —  only  don't  spread  it  about  that  I 
said  so,  for  we  know  excellent  persons  of  a  serious  turn  of 
mind  whose  opinions  that  sentiment  might  shock." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HISTORICAL  PROBLEM  :  "  Is  Gentleman  Waife  a  swindler  or  a  man  of  ge- 
nius ?  "  ANSWER  :  "  Certainly  a  swindler,  if  ho  don't  succeed."  Julius 
Caesar  owed  two  millions  when  he  risked  the  experiment  of  being  general 
in  Gaul.  If  Julius  Caesar  had  not  lived  to  cross  the  Rubicon  aud  pay  off 
his  debts,  what  would  his  creditors  have  called  Julius  Caesar  1 

I  NEED  not  say  that  Mr.  Hartopp  and  his  foreman  came 
duly  to  tea,  but  the  Comedian  exhibited  Sir  Isaac's  talents 
very  sparingly, —  just  enough  to  excite  admiration  without 
sating  curiosity.  Sophy,  whose  pretty  face  and  well-bred  air 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  195 

were  not  unappreciated,  was  dismissed  early  to  bed  by  a  sign 
from  her  grandfather,  and  the  Comedian  then  exerted  his 
powers  to  entertain  his  visitors,  so  that  even  Sir  Isaac  was 
soon  forgotten.  Hard  task,  by  writing,  to  convey  a  fair  idea 
of  this  singular  vagrant's  pleasant  vein.  It  was  not  so  much 
what  he  said  as  the  way  of  saying  it,  which  gave  to  his  desul- 
tory talk  the  charm  of  humour.  He  had  certainly  seen  an 
immense  deal  of  life  somehow  or  other;  and  without  appear- 
ing at  the  time  to  profit  much  by  observation,  without  per- 
haps being  himself  conscious  that  he  did  profit,  there  was 
something  in  the  very  enfantillage  of  his  loosest  prattle,  by 
which,  with  a  glance  of  the  one  lustrous  eye  and  a  twist  of 
the  mobile  lip,  he  could  convey  the  impression  of  an  original 
genius  playing  with  this  round  world  of  ours  —  tossing  it  up, 
catching  it  again  —  easily  as  a  child  plays  with  its  party-col- 
oured ball.  His  mere  book-knowledge  was  not  much  to  boast 
of,  though  early  in  life  he  must  have  received  a  fair  educa- 
tion. He  had  a  smattering  of  the  ancient  classics,  sufficient, 
perhaps,  to  startle  the  unlearned.  If  he  had  not  read  them, 
he  had  read  about  them;  and  at  various  odds  and  ends  of  his 
life  he  had  picked  up  acquaintance  with  the  popular  standard 
modern  writers.  But  literature  with  him  was  the  smallest 
stripe  in  the  party-coloured  ball.  Still  it  was  astonishing 
how  far  and  wide  the  Comedian  could  spread  the  sands  of 
lore  that  the  winds  had  drifted  round  the  door  of  his  playful, 
busy  intellect.  Where,  for  instance,  could  he  ever  have  stud- 
ied the  nature  and  prospects  of  Mechanics'  Institutes?  and 
yet  how  well  he  seemed  to  understand  them.  Here,  perhaps, 
his  experience  in  one  kind  of  audience  helped  him  to  the  key 
to  all  miscellaneous  assemblages.  In  fine,  the  man  was  an 
actor ;  and  if  he  had  thought  fit  to  act  the  part  of  Professor 
Long  himself,  he  would  have  done  it  to  the  life. 

The  two  burghers  had  not  spent  so  pleasant  an  evening  for 
many  years.  As  the  clock  struck  twelve,  the  Mayor,  whose 
gig  had  been  in  waiting  a  whole  hour  to  take  him  to  his  villa, 
rose  reluctantly  to  depart. 

"And,"  said  Williams,  "the  bills  must  be  out  to-morrow. 
What  shall  we  advertise?" 


196  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"The  simpler  the  better,"  said  Waife;  "only  pray  "head  the 
performance  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  under  the  special 
patronage  of  his  worship  the  Mayor." 

The  Mayor  felt  his  breast  swell  as  if  he  had  received  some 
overwhelming  personal  obligation. 

"Suppose  it  run  thus,"  continued  the  Comedian,  — 

"Illustrations  from  Domestic  Life  and  Natural  History, 
with  LIVE  examples:  PART  FIRST  —  THE  DOG!" 

"It  will  take,"  said  the  Mayor:  "dogs  are  such  popular 
animals ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Williams;  "and  though  for  that  very  reason 
some  might  think  that  by  the  'live  example  of  a  dog '  we 
compromised  the  dignity  of  the  Institute,  still  the  importance 
of  Natural  History  —  " 

"And,"  added  the  Comedian,  "the  sanctifying  influences 
of  domestic  life  —  " 

"May,"  concluded  Mr.  Williams,  "carry  off  whatever  may 
seem  to  the  higher  order  of  minds  a  too  familiar  attraction  in 
the  — dog!" 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  result, "  said  Waife,  "  provided  the  audi- 
ence be  sufficiently  numerous ;  for  that  (which  is  an  indispen- 
sable condition  to  a  fair  experiment)  I  issue  hand-bills, — 
only  where  distributed  by  the  Mayor." 

"Don't  be  too  sanguine.  I  distributed  bills  on  behalf  of 
Professor  Long,  and  the  audience  was  not  numerous.  How- 
ever, I  will  do  my  best.  Is  there  nothing  more  in  which  I 
can  be  of  use  to  you,  Mr.  Chapman?" 

"Yes,  later."  Williams  took  alarm,  and  approached  the 
Mayor's  breast-pocket  protectingly.  The  Comedian  with- 
drew him  aside  and  whispered,  "  I  intend  to  give  the  Mayor 
a  little  outline  of  the  exhibition,  and  bring  him  into  it,  in 
order  that  his  fellow-townsmen  may  signify  their  regard  for 
him  by  a  cheer ;  it  will  please  his  good  heart,  and  be  touch- 
ing* you'll  see  —  mum!"  Williams  shook  the  Comedian  by 
the  hand,  relieved,  affected,  and  confiding. 

The  visitors  departed;  and  the  Comedian  lighted  his  hand- 
candlestick,  whistled  to  Sir  Isaac,  and  went  to  bed  without 
one  compunctious  thought  upon  the  growth  of  his  bill  and  the 


WHAT  WILL   HE   DO  WITH   IT?  197 

deficit  in  his  pockets.  And  yet  it  was  true,  as  Sophy  im- 
plied, that  the  Comedian  had  an  honest  horror  of  incurring 
debt.  He  generally  thought  twice  before  he  risked  owing 
even  the  most  trifling  bill ;  and  when  the  bill  came  in,  if  it 
left  him  penniless,  it  was  paid.  And,  now,  what  reckless 
extravagance !  The  best  apartments !  dinner,  tea,  in  the  first 
hotel  of  the  town!  half-a-crown  to  a  porter!  That  lavish 
mode  of  life  renewed  with  the  dawning  sun !  not  a  care  for 
the  morrow;  and  I  dare  not  conjecture  how  few  the  shillings 
in  that  purse.  What  aggravation,  too,  of  guilt!  Bills  in- 
curred without  means  under  a  borrowed  name!  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  be  a  lawyer;  but  it  looks  to  me  very  much  like  swin- 
dling. Yet  the  wretch  sleeps.  But  are  we  sure  that  we  are 
not  shallow  moralists?  Do  we  carry  into  account  the  right 
of  genius  to  draw  bills  upon  the  Future?  Does  not  the  most 
prudent  general  sometimes  burn  his  ships?  Does  not  the 
most  upright  merchant  sometimes  take  credit  on  the  chance 
of  his  ventures?  May  not  that  peaceful  slumberer  be  morally 
sure  that  he  has  that  argosy  afloat  in  his  own  head,  which 
amply  justifies  his  use  of  the  "  Saracen's "  ?  If  his  plan 
should  fail?  He  will  tell  you  that  is  impossible!  But  if  it 
should  fail,  you  say.  Listen;  there  runs  a  story  —  I  don't 
vouch  for  its  truth:  I  tell  it  as  it  was  told  to  me  —  there 
runs  a  story  that  in  the  late  Kussian  war  a  certain  naval  vet- 
eran, renowned  for  professional  daring  and  scientific  inven- 
tion, was  examined  before  some  great  officials  as  to  the 
chances  of  taking  Cronstadt.  "If  yoTi  send  me,"  said  the 
admiral,  "  with  so  many  ships  of  the  line,  and  so  many  gun- 
boats, Cronstadt  of  course  will  be  taken."  "But,"  said  a 
prudent  lord,  "suppose  it  should  not  be  taken?"  "That  is 
impossible :  it  must  be  taken ! "  "  Yes, "  persisted  my  lord, 
"you  think  so,  no  doubt;  but  still,  if  it  should  not  be 
taken,  —  what  then?"  "What  then?  —  why,  there's  an  end 
of  the  British  fleet ! "  The  great  men  took  alarm,  and  that 
admiral  was  not  sent.  But  they  misconstrued  the  meaning 
of  his  answer.  He  meant  not  to  imply  any  considerable 
danger  to  the  British  fleet.  He  meant  to  prove  that  one 
hypothesis  was  impossible  by  the  suggestion  of  a  counter- 


198  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

impossibility  more  self-evident.  "  It  is  impossible  but  what 
I  shall  take  Cronstadt!  "  "  But  if  you  don't  take  it!"  "  It  is 
impossible  but  what  I  shall  take  it;  for  if  I  don't  take  it, 
there  's  an  end  of  the  British  fleet ;  and  as  it  is  impossible 
that  there  should  be  an  end  of  the  British  fleet,  it  is  impos- 
sible, that  I  should  not  take  Cronstadt!  "  —  Q.E.D. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IN  which  everything  depends  on  Sir  Isaac's  success  in  discovering  the 
law  of  attraction. 

ON  the  appointed  evening,  at  eight  o'clock,  the  great  room 
of  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum  was  unusually  well  filled.  Not 
only  had  the  Mayor  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  for  that 
object,  but  the  hand-bill  itself  promised  a  rare  relief  from  the 
prosiness  of  abstract  enlightenment  and  elevated  knowledge. 
Moreover,  the  stranger  himself  had  begun  to  excite  specula- 
tion and  curiosity.  He  was  an  amateur,  not  a  cut-and-dry 
professor.  The  Mayor  and  Mr.  Williams  had  both  spread 
the  report  that  there  was  more  in  him  than  appeared  on  the 
surface;  prodigiously  learned,  but  extremely  agreeable, — 
fine  manners,  too!  —  Who  could  he  be?  Was  Chapman  his 
real  name?  etc. 

The  Comedian  had  obtained  permission  to  arrange  the  room 
beforehand.  He  had  the  raised  portion  of  it  for  his  stage, 
and  he  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  green  curtain  to 
be  drawn  across  it.  From  behind  this  screen  he  now  emerged 
and  bowed.  The  bow  redoubled  the  first  conventional  ap- 
plause. He  then  began  a  very  short  address, — extremely 
well  delivered,  as  you  may  suppose,  but  rather  in  the  con- 
versational than  the  oratorical  style.  He  said  it  was  his  ob- 
ject to  exhibit  the  intelligence  of  that  Universal  Friend  of 
Man,  the  Dog,  in  some  manner  appropriate,  not  only  to  its 
sagacious  instincts,  but  to  its  affectionate  nature,  and  to  con- 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO  WITH  IT?  199 

yey  thereby  the  moral  that  talents,  however  great,  learning, 
however  deep,  were  of  no  avail,  unless  rendered  serviceable 
to  Man.  (Applause.)  He  must  be  pardoned  then,  if,  in 
order  to  effect  this  object,  he  was  compelled  to  borrow  some 
harmless  effects  from  the  stage.  In  a  word,  his  dog  could 
represent  to  them  the  plot  of  a  little  drama.  And  he,  though 
he  could  not  say  that  he  was  altogether  unaccustomed  to  pub- 
lic speaking  (here  a  smile,  modest,  but  august  as  that  of  some 
famous  parliamentary  orator  who  makes  his  first  appearance 
at  a  vestry),  still  wholly  new  to  its  practice  in  the  special 
part  he  had  undertaken,  would  rely  on  their  indulgence  to 
efforts  aspiring  to  no  other  merit  than  that  of  aiding  the  Hero 
of  the  Piece  in  a  familiar  illustration  of  those  qualities  in 
which  dogs  might  give  a  lesson  to  humanity.  Again  he 
bowed,  and  retired  behind  the  curtain.  A  pause  of  three 
minutes!  the  curtain  drew  up.  Could  that  be  the  same  Mr. 
Chapman  whom  the  spectators  beheld  before  them?  Could 
three  minutes  suffice  to  change  the  sleek,  respectable,  pros- 
perous-looking gentleman  who  had  just  addressed  them  into 
that  image  of  threadbare  poverty  and  hunger-pinched  dejec- 
tion? Little  aid  from  theatrical  costume :  the  clothes  seemed 
the  same,  only  to  have  grown  wondrous  aged  and  rusty.  The 
face,  the  figure,  the  man ,  —  these  had  undergone  a  transmuta- 
tion beyond  the  art  of  the  mere  stage  wardrobe,  be  it  ever  so 
amply  stored,  to  effect.  But  for  the  patch  over  the  eye,  you 
could  not  have  recognized  Mr.  Chapman.  There  was,  indeed, 
about  him,  still,  an  air  of  dignity;  but  it  was  the  dignity  of 
woe, — a  dignity,  too,  not  of  an  affable  civilian,  but  of  some 
veteran  soldier.  You  could  not  mistake.  Though  not  in 
uniform,  the  melancholy  man  must  have  been  a  warrior! 
The  way  the  coat  was  buttoned  across  the  chest,  the  black 
stock  tightened  round  the  throat,  the  shoulders  thrown  back 
in  the  disciplined  habit  of  a  life,  though  the  head  bent  for- 
ward in  the  despondency  of  an  eventful  crisis,  —  all  spoke 
the  decayed  but  not  ignoble  hero  of  a  hundred  fields. 

There  was  something  foreign,  too,  about  the  veteran's  air. 
Mr.  Chapman  had  looked  so  thoroughly  English :  that  tragi- 
cal and  meagre  personage  looked  so  unequivocally  French. 


200  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Not  a  word  had  the  Comedian  yet  said ;  and  yet  all  this  had 
the  first  sight  of  him  conveyed  to  the  audience.  There  was 
an  amazed  murmur,  then  breathless  stillness ;  the  story  rapidly 
unfolded  itself,  partly  by  words,  much  more  by  look  and  ac- 
tion. There  sat  a  soldier  who  had  fought  under  Napoleon 
at  Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  gone  through  the  snows  of  Mus- 
covy, escaped  the  fires  of  Waterloo,  —  the  soldier  of  the  Em- 
pire! Wondrous  ideal  of  a  wondrous  time!  and  nowhere 
winning  more  respect  and  awe  than  in  that  land  of  the  old 
English  foe,  in  which  with  slight  knowledge  of  the  Beautiful 
in  Art,  there  is  so  reverent  a  sympathy  for  all  that  is  grand 
in  Man!  There  sat  the  soldier,  penniless  and  friendless, — 
there,  scarcely  seen,  reclined  his  grandchild,  weak  and  slowly 
dying  for  the  want  of  food ;  and  all  that  the  soldier  possesses 
wherewith  to  buy  bread  for  the  day,  is  his  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour.  It  was  given  to  him  by  the  hand  of  the  Emperor : 
must  he  pawn  or  sell  it?  Out  on  the  pomp  of  decoration 
which  we  have  substituted  for  the  voice  of  passionate  nature 
on  our  fallen  stage!  Scenes  so  faithful  to  the  shaft  of  a 
column, —  dresses  by  which  an  antiquary  can  define  a  date  to 
a  year!  Is  delusion  there?  Is  it  thus  we  are  snatched  from 
Thebes  to  Athens?  No;  place  a  really  fine  actor  on  a  deal 
board,  and  for  Thebes  and  Athens  you  may  hang  up  a  blanket ! 
Why,  that  very  cross  which  the  old  soldier  holds  —  away 
from  his  sight  —  in  that  tremulous  hand,  is  but  patched  up 
from  the  foil  and  cardboard  bought  at  the  stationer's  shop. 
You  might  see  it  was  nothing  more,  if  you  tried  to  see.  Did 
a  soul  present  think  of  such  minute  investigation?  Not  one. 
In  the  actor's  hand  that  trumpery  became  at  once  the  glorious 
thing  by  which  Napoleon  had  planted  the  sentiment  of  knightly 
heroism  in  the  men  whom  Danton  would  have  launched  upon 
earth  ruthless  and  bestial,  as  galley-slaves  that  had  burst 
their  chain. 

The  badge,  wrought  from  foil  and  cardboard,  took  life  and 
soul:  it  begot  an  interest,  inspired  a  pathos,  as  much  as  if  it 
had  been  made  —  oh !  not  of  gold  and  gems,  but  of  flesh  and 
blood.  And  the  simple  broken  words  that  the  veteran  ad- 
dressed to  it!  The  scenes,  the  fields,  the  hopes,  the  glories 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  201 

it  conjured  up!  And  now  to  be  wrenched  away, —  sold  to 
supply  Man's  humblest,  meanest  wants,  —  sold  —  the  last 
symbol  of  such  a  past!  It  was  indeed  "propter  vitam  vivendi 
perdere  causas."  He  would  have  starved  rather, —  but  the 
child?  And  then  the  child  rose  up  and  came  into  play.  She 
would  not  suffer  such  a  sacrifice, —  she  was  not  hungry, —  she 
was  not  weak ;  and  when  her  voice  failed  her,  she  looked  up 
into  that  iron  face  and  smiled, —  nothing  but  a  smile.  Out 
came  the  pocket-handkerchiefs !  The  soldier  seizes  the  cross, 
and  turns  away.  It  shall  be  sold!  As  he  opens  the  door,  a 
dog  enters  gravely, — licks  his  hand,  approaches  the  table, 
raises  itself  on  its  hind  legs,  surveys  the  table  dolefully, 
shakes  its  head,  whines,  comes  to  its  master,  pulls  him  by 
the  skirt,  looks  into  his  face  inquisitively. 

What  does  all  this  mean?  It  soon  comes  out,  and  very 
naturally.  The  dog  belonged  to  an  old  fellow-soldier,  who 
had  gone  to  the  Isle  of  France  to  claim  his  share  in  the  in- 
heritance of  a  brother  who  had  settled  and  died  there,  and 
who,  meanwhile,  had  confided  it  to  the  care  of  our  veteran, 
who  was  then  in  comparatively  easy  circumstances,  since 
ruined  by  the  failure  and  fraud  of  a  banker  to  whom  he  had 
intrusted  his  all ;  and  his  small  pension,  including  the  yearly 
sum  to  which  his  cross  entitled  him,  had  been  forestalled  and 
mortgaged  to  pay  the  petty  debts  which,  relying  on  his  di- 
vidend from  the  banker,  he  had  innocently  incurred.  The 
dog's  owner  had  been  gone  for  months;  his  return  might  be 
daily  expected.  Meanwhile  the  dog  was  at  the  hearth,  but 
the  wolf  at  the  door.  Now,  this  sagacious  animal  had  been 
taught  to  perform  the  duties  of  messenger  and  major-domo. 
At  stated  intervals  he  applied  to  his  master  for  sous,  and 
brought  back  the  supplies  which  the  sous  purchased.  He 
now,  as  usual,  came  to  the  table  for  the  accustomed  coin  — 
the  last  sou  was  gone, — the  dog's  occupation  was  at  an  end. 
But  could  not  the  dog  be  sold?  Impossible:  it  was  the  prop- 
erty of  another, —  a  sacred  deposit;  one  would  be  as  bad  as 
the  fraudulent  banker  if  one  could  apply  to  one's  own  neces- 
sities the  property  one  holds  in  trust.  These  little  biographi- 
cal particulars  came  out  in  that  sort  of  bitter  and  pathetic 


202  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH   IT? 

humour  which  a  study  of  Shakspeare,  or  the  experience  of 
actual  life,  had  taught  the  Comedian  to  be  a  natural  relief  to 
an  intense  sorrow.  The  dog  meanwhile  aided  the  narrative 
by  his  by-play.  Still  intent  upon  the  sous,  he  thrust  his  nose 
into  his  master's  pockets;  he  appealed  touchingly  to  the 
child,  and  finally  put  back  his  head  and  vented  his  emotion 
in  a  lugubrious  and  elegiacal  howl.  Suddenly  there  is  heard 
without  the  sound  of  a  showman's  tin  trumpet!  Whether  the 
actor  had  got  some  obliging  person  to  perform  on  that  instru- 
ment, or  whether,  as  more  likely,  it  was  but  a  trick  of  ventril- 
oquism, we  leave  to  conjecture.  At  that  note,  an  idea  seemed 
to  seize  the  dog.  He  ran  first  to  his  master,  who  was  on  the 
threshold  about  to  depart ;  pulled  him  back  into  the  centre  of 
the  room :  next  he  ran  to  the  child,  dragging  her  towards  the 
same  spot,  though  with  great  tenderness,  and  then,  uttering 
a  joyous  bark,  he  raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs  and,  with 
incomparable  solemnity,  performed  a  minuet  step!  The  child 
catches  the  idea  from  the  dog.  "Was  he  not  more  worth 
seeing  than  the  puppet-show  in  the  streets?  might  not  people 
give  money  to  see  him,  and  the  old  soldier  still  keep  his  cross? 
To-day  there  is  a  public  fete  in  the  gardens  yonder:  that 
showman  must  be  going  thither;  why  not  go  too?  What!  he 
the  old  soldier, — he  stoop  to  show  off  a  dog!  he!  he!  The 
dog  looked  at  him  deprecatingly.  and  stretched  himself  on 
the  floor  —  lifeless. 

Yes,  that  is  the  alternative  —  shall  his  child  die  too,  and 
he  be  too  proud  to  save  her?  Ah!  and  if  the  cross  can  be 
saved  also!  But  pshaw  1  what  did  the  dog  know  that  people 
would  care  to  see?  Oh,  much,  much.  When  the  child  was 
alone  and  sad,  it  would  come  and  play  with  her.  See  those 
old  dominos!  She  ranged  them  on  the  floor,  and  the  dog 
leaped  up  and  came  to  prove  his  skill.  Artfully,  then,  the 
Comedian  had.  planned  that  the  dog  should  make  some  sad 
mistakes,  alternated  by  some  marvellous  surprises.  No,  he 
would  not  do :  yes,  he  would  do.  The  audience  took  it  seri- 
ously, and  became  intensely  interested  in  the  dog's  success; 
so  sorry  for  his  blunders,  so  triumphant  in  his  lucky  hits. 
And  then  the  child  calmed  the  hasty  irritable  old  man  so 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH   IT?  203 

sweetly,  and  corrected  the  dog  so  gently,  and  talked  to  the 
animal ;  told  it  how  much  they  relied  on  it,  and  produced  her 
infant  alphabet,  and  spelt  out  "Save  us."  The  dog  looked  at 
the  letters  meditatively,  and  henceforth  it  was  evident  that 
he  took  more  pains.  Better  and  better;  he  will  do,  he  will 
do!  The  child  shall  not  starve,  the  cross  shall  not  be  sold. 
Down  drops  the  curtain.  End  of  Act  I. 

Act  II.  opens  with  a  dialogue  spoken  off  the  stage.  Invisi- 
ble dramatis  personce,  that  subsist,  with  airy  tongues,  upon 
the  mimetic  art  of  the  Comedian.  You  understand  that  there 
is  a  vehement  dispute  going  on.  The  dog  must  not  be  ad- 
mitted into  a  part  of  the  gardens  where  a  more  refined  and 
exclusive  section  of  the  company  have  hired  seats,  in  order  to 
contemplate,  without  sharing,  the  rude  dances  or  jostling 
promenade  of  the  promiscuous  merry-makers.  Much  hub- 
bub, much  humour;  some  persons  for  the  dog,  some  against 
him;  privilege  and  decorum  here,  equality  and  fraternity 
there.  A  Bonapartist  colonel  sees  the  cross  on  the  soldier's 
breast,  and,  mille  tonnerres!  he  settles  the  point.  He  pays 
for  three  reserved  seats, —  one  for  the  soldier,  one  for  the 
child,  and  a  third  for  the  dog.  The  veteran  enters,  —  the  child, 
not  strong  enough  to  have  pushed  through  the  crowd,  raised 
on  his  shoulder,  Holla-like;  the  dog  led  by  a  string.  He 
enters  erect  and  warrior-like;  his  spirit  has  been  roused  by 
contest;  his  struggles  have  been  crowned  by  victory.  But 
(and  here  the  art  of  the  drama  and  the  actor  culminated  to- 
wards the  highest  point)  —  but  he  now  at  once  Includes  in  the 
list  of  his  dramatis  persona;  the  whole  of  his  Gatesboro'  audi- 
ence. They  are  that  select  company  into  which  he  has  thus 
forced  his  way.  As  he  sees  them  seated  before  him,  so  calm, 
orderly,  and  dignified,  mauvaise  honte  steals  over  the  breast 
more  accustomed  to  front  the  cannon  than  the  battery  of  ladies' 
eyes.  He  places  the  child  in  a  chair  abashed  and  humbled; 
he  drops  into  a  seat  beside  her  shrinkingly;  and  the  dog, 
with  more  self-possession  and  sense  of  his  own  consequence, 
brushes  with  his  paw  some  imaginary  dust  from  a  third 
chair,  as  in  the  superciliousness  of  the  well  dressed,  and  then 
seats  himself,  and  looks  round  with  serene  audacity. 


204  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

The  chairs  were  skilfully  placed  on  one  side  of  the  stage, 
as  close  as  possible  to  the  front  row  of  the  audience.  The 
soldier  ventures  a  furtive  glance  along  the  lines,  and  then 
speaks  to  his  grandchild  in  whispered,  bated  breath:  "Now 
they  are  there,  what  are  they  come  for?  To  beg?  He  can 
never  have  the  boldness  to  exhibit  an  animal  for  sous, —  im- 
possible; no,  no,  let  them  slink  back  again  and  sell  the 
cross."  And  the  child  whispers  courage;  bids  him  look 
again  along  the  rows ;  those  faces  seem  very  kind.  He  again 
lifts  his  eyes,  glances  round,  and  with  an  extemporaneous 
tact  that  completed  the  illusion  to  which  the  audience  were 
already  gently  lending  themselves,  made  sundry  complimen- 
tary comments  on  the  different  faces  actually  before  him,  se- 
lected most  felicitously.  The  audience,  taken  by  surprise,  as 
some  fair  female,  or  kindly  burgess,  familiar  to  their  associ- 
ations, was  thus  pointed  out  to  their  applause,  became  hear- 
tily genial  in  their  cheers  and  laughter.  And  the  Comedian's 
face,  unmoved  by  such  demonstrations, — so  shy  and  sad, — 
insinuated  its  pathos  underneath  cheer  and  laugh.  You 
now  learned  through  the  child  that  a  dance,  on  which  the 
company  had  been  supposed  to  be  gazing,  was  concluded,  and 
that  they  would  not  be  displeased  by  an  interval  of  some 
other  diversion.  Now  was  the  time!  The  dog,  as  if  to  con- 
vey a  sense  of  the  prevalent  ennui)  yawned  audibly,  patted 
the  child  on  the  shoulder,  and  looked  up  in  her  face.  "A 
game  of  dominos,"  whispered  the  little  girl.  The  dog  glee- 
fully grinned  assent.  Timidly  she  stole  forth  the  old  dom- 
inos, and  ranged  them  on  the  ground;  on  which  she  slipped 
from  her  chair,  the  dog  slipped  from  his;  they  began  to 
play.  The  experiment  was  launched;  the  soldier  saw  that 
the  curiosity  of  the  company  was  excited,  that  the  show 
would  commence,  the  sous  follow;  and  as  if  he  at  least  would 
not  openly  shame  his  service  and  his  Emperor,  he  turned 
aside,  slid  his  hand  to  his  breast,  tore  away  his  cross,  and 
hid  it.  Scarce  a  murmured  word  accompanied  the  action, — 
the  acting  said  all ;  and  a  noble  thrill  ran  through  the  audi- 
ence. Oh,  sublime  art  of  the  mime ! 

The  Mayor  sat  very  near  where  the  child  and  dog  were  at 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  205 

play.  The  Comedian  had  (as  he  before  implied  he  would  do) 
discreetly  prepared  that  gentleman  for  direct  and  personal 
appeal.  The  little  girl  turned  her  blue  eyes  innocently  to- 
wards Mr.  Hartopp,  and  said,  "The  dog  beats  me,  sir;  will 
you  try  what  you  can  do?" 

A  roar,  and  universal  clapping  of  hands,  amidst  which  the 
worthy  magistrate  stepped  on  the  stage.  At  the  command  of 
its  young  mistress  the  dog  made  the  magistrate  a  polite  bow, 
and  straight  to  the  game  went  magistrate  and  dog.  From 
that  time  the  interest  became,  as  it  were,  personal  to  all  pre- 
sent. "  Will  you  come,  sir, "  said  the  child  to  a  young  gen- 
tleman, who  was  straining  his  neck  to  see  how  the  dominos 
were  played,  "and  observe  that  it  is  all  fair?  You,  too,  sir?" 
to  Mr.  Williams.  The  Comedian  stood  beside  the  dog,  whose 
movements  he  directed  with  undetected  skill,  while  appearing 
only  to  fix  his  eyes  on  the  ground  in  conscious  abasement. 
Those  on  the  rows  from  behind  now  pressed  forward;  those 
in  advance  either  came  on  the  stage,  or  stood  up  intently 
contemplating.  The  Mayor  was  defeated,  the  crowd  became 
too  thick,  and  the  caresses  bestowed  on  the  dog  seemed  to  fa- 
tigue him.  He  rose  and  retreated  to  a  corner  haughtily. 
"Manners,  sir,"  said  the  soldier;  "it  is  not  for  the  like  of  us 
to  be  proud;  excuse  him,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  "He  only 
wishes  to  please  all,"  said  the  child,  deprecatingly.  "Say 
how  many  would  you  have  round  us  at  a  time,  so  that  the 
rest  may  not  be  prevented  seeing  you."  She  spread  the  mul- 
tiplication figures  before  the  dog;  the  dog  put  his  paw  on  10. 

"Astonishing!  "  said  the  Mayor. 

"Will  you  choose  them  yourself,  sir?" 

The  dog  nodded,  walked  leisurely  round,  keeping  one  eye 
towards  the  one  eye  of  his  master  and  selected  ten  persons, 
amongst  whom  were  the  Mayor,  Mr.  Williams,  and  three 
pretty  young  ladies  who  had  been  induced  to  ascend  the 
stage.  The  others  were  chosen  no  less  judiciously. 

The  dog  was  then  artfully  led  on  from  one  accomplishment 
to  another,  much  within  the  ordinary  range  which  bounds 
the  instruction  of  learned  animals.  He  was  asked  to  say 
how  many  ladies  were  on  the  stage:  he  spelt  three.  What 


206  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

were  their  names?  "The  Graces."  Then  he  was  asked  who 
was  the  first  magistrate  in  the  town.  The  dog  made  a  bow 
to  the  Mayor.  "What  had  made  that  gentleman  first  mag- 
istrate? "  The  dog  looked  to  the  alphabet  and  spelt  "  Worth." 
"Were  there  any  persons  present  more  powerful  than  the 
Mayor?  "  The  dog  bowed  to  the  three  young  ladies.  "  What 
made  them  more  powerful?"  The  dog  spelt  "Beauty." 
When  ended  the  applause  these  answers  received,  the  dog 
went  through  the  musket  exercise  with  the  soldier's  staff; 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  performed  that,  he  came  to  the  business 
part  of  the  exhibition,  seized  the  hat  which  his  master  had 
dropped  on  the  ground,  and  carried  it  round  to  each  person 
on  the  stage.  They  looked  at  one  another.  "  He  is  a  poor 
soldier's  dog,"  said  the  child,  hiding  her  face.  "No,  no; 
a  soldier  cannot  beg,"  cried  the  Comedian.  The  Mayor 
dropped  a  coin  in  the  hat ;  others  did  the  same  or  affected  to 
do  it.  The  dog  took  the  hat  to  his  master,  who  waved  him 
aside.  There  was  a  pause.  The  dog  laid  the  hat  softly  at 
the  soldier's  feet,  and  looked  up  at  the  child  beseechingly. 

"What,"  asked  she,  raising  her  head  proudly  —  "what  se- 
cures WORTH  and  defends  BEAUTY?"  The  dog  took  up  the 
staff  and  shouldered  it.  "  And  to  what  can  the  soldier  look 
for  aid  when  he  starves  and  will  not  beg?  "  The  dog  seemed 
puzzled, — the  suspense  was  awful.  "Good  heavens,"  thought 
the  Comedian,  "if  the  brute  should  break  down  after  all!  — 
and  when  I  took  such  care  that  the  words  should  lie  undis- 
turbed —  right  before  his  nose !  "  With  a  deep  sigh  the  vet- 
eran started  from  his  despondent  attitude,  and  crept  along 
the  floor  as  if  for  escape  —  so  broken-down,  so  crestfallen. 
Every  eye  was  on  that  heartbroken  face  and  receding  figure ; 
and  the  eye  of  that  heartbroken  face  was  on  the  dog,  and  the 
foot  of  that  receding  figure  seemed  to  tremble,  recoil,  start, 
as  it  passed  by  the  alphabetical  letters  which  still  lay  on  the 
ground  as  last  arranged.  "Ah!  to  what  should  he  look  for 
aid?"  repeated  the  grandchild,  clasping  her  little  hands. 
The  dog  had  now  caught  the  cue,  and  put  his  paw  first  upon 
"WORTH,"  and  then  upon  "BEAUTY."  "Worth!"  cried  the 
ladies  —  "Beauty!"  exclaimed  the  Mayor.  "Wonderful, 


WHAT   WILL   HE  DO   WITH   IT?  207 

wonderful !  "  "  Take  up  the  hat, "  said  the  child,  and  turning 
to  the  Mayor  —  "Ah!  tell  him,  sir,  that  what  Worth  and 
Beauty  give  to  Valour  in  distress  is  not  alms  but  tribute." 

The  words  were  little  better  than  a  hack  claptrap ;  but  the 
sweet  voice  glided  through  the  assembly,  and  found  its  way 
into  every  heart. 

"Is  it  so?"  asked  the  old  soldier,  as  his  hand  hoveringly 
passed  above  the  coins.  "Upon  my  honour  it  is,  sir!"  said 
the  Mayor,  with  serious  emphasis.  The  audience  thought  it 
the  best  speech  he  had  ever  made  in  his  life,  and  cheered  him 
till  the  roof  rang  again.  "Oh!  bread,  bread,  for  you,  dar- 
ling! "  cried  the  veteran,  bowing  his  head  over  the  child,  and 
taking  out  his  cross  and  kissing  it  with  passion;  "and  the 
badge  of  honour  still  for  me ! " 

While  the  audience  was  in  the  full  depth  of  its  emotion, 
and  generous  tears  in  many  an  eye,  Waife  seized  his  moment, 
dropped  the  actor,  and  stepped  forth  to  the  front  as  the  man 
—  simple,  quiet,  earnest  man  —  artless  man! 

"This  is  no  mimic  scene,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  It  is  a 
tale  in  real  life  that  stands  out  before  you.  I  am  here  to 
appeal  to  those  hearts  that  are  not  vainly  open  to  human 
sorrows.  I  plead  for  what  I  have  represented.  True,  that 
the  man  who  needs  your  aid  is  not  one  of  that  soldiery  which 
devastated  Europe.  But  he  has  fought  in  battles  as  severe, 
and  been  left  by  fortune  to  as  stern  a  desolation.  True,  he  is 
not  a  Frenchman;  he  is  one  of  a  land  you  will  not  love  less 
than  France, —  it  is  your  own.  He,  too,  has  a  child  whom  he 
would  save  from  famine.  He,  too,  has  nothing  left  to  sell  or 
to  pawn  for  bread, —  except  —  oh,  not  this  gilded  badge,  see, 
this  is  only  foil  and  cardboard, —  except,  I  say,  the  thing  it- 
self, of  which  you  respect  even  so  poor  a  symbol, —  nothing 
left  to  sell  or  to  pawn  but  Honour!  For  these  I  have  pleaded 
this  night  as  a  showman;  for  these,  less  haughty  than  the 
Frenchman,  I  stretch  my  hands  towards  you  without  shame ; 
for  these  I  am  a  beggar." 

He  was  silent.  The  dog  quietly  took  up  the  hat  and  ap- 
proached the  Mayor  again.  The  Mayor  extracted  the  half- 
crown  he  had  previously  deposited,  and  dropped  into  the  hat 


208  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

two  golden  sovereigns.  Who  does  not  guess  the  rest?  All 
crowded  forward, — youth  and  age,  man  and  woman.  And 
most  ardent  of  all  were  those  whose  life  stands  most  close  to 
vicissitude,  most  exposed  to  beggary,  most  sorely  tried  in  the 
'alternative  between  bread  and  honour.  Not  an  operative 
there  but  spared  his  mite. 


CHAPTER'  XIII. 

OMNE  ignotnm  pro  magnifico.  —  Rumour,  knowing  nothing  of  his  ante- 
cedents, exalts  Gentleman  Waife  into  Don  Magnifico. 

THE  Comedian  and  his  two  coadjutors  were  followed  to  the 
Saracen's  Head  inn  by  a  large  crowd,  but  at  respectful  dis- 
tance. Though  I  know  few  things  less  pleasing  than  to  have 
been  decoyed  and  entrapped  into  an  unexpected  demand  upon 
one's  purse, — when  one  only  counted,  too,  upon  an  agreeable 
evening, — and  hold,  therefore,  in  just  abhorrence  the  circu- 
lating plate  which  sometimes  fallows  a  public  oration,  homily, 
or  other  eloquent  appeal  to  British  liberality;  yet,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  there  was  not  a  creature  whom  the  Comedian 
had  surprised  into  impulsive  beneficence  who  regretted  his 
action,  grudged  its  cost,  or  thought  he  had  paid  too  dear  for 
his  entertainment.  All  had  gone  through  a  series  of  such 
pleasurable  emotions  that  all  had,  as  it  were,  wished  a  vent 
for  their  gratitude;  and  when  the  vent  was  found,  it  became 
an  additional  pleasure.  But,  strange  to  say,  no  one  could  sat- 
isfactorily explain  to  himself  these  two  questions, — for  what, 
and  to  whom  had  he  given  his  money?  It  was  not  a  general 
conjecture  that  the  exhibitor  wanted  the  money  for  his  own 
uses.  No;  despite  the  evidence  in  favour  of  that  idea,  a 
person  so  respectable,  so  dignified,  addressing  them,  too, 
with  that  noble  assurance  to  which  a  man  who  begs  for  him- 
self is  not  morally  entitled, —  a  person  thus  characterized 
must  be  some  high-hearted  philanthropist  who  condescended 


WHAT   WILL   HE   DO   WITH   IT?  209 

to  display  his  powers  at  an  Institute  purely  intellectual,  per- 
haps on  behalf  of  an  eminent  but  decayed  author,  whose 
name,  from  the  respect  due  to  letters,  was  delicately  con- 
cealed. Mr.  Williams,  considered  the  hardest  head  and  most 
practical  man  in  the  town,  originated  and  maintained  that 
hypothesis.  Probably  the  stranger  was  an  author  himself, — 
a  great  and  affluent  author.  Had  not  great  and  affluent  au- 
thors —  men  who  are  the  boast  of  our  time  and  land  —  acted, 
yea,  on  a  common  stage,  and  acted  inimitably  too,  on  behalf 
of  some  lettered  brother  or  literary  object?  Therefore  in 
these  guileless  minds,  with  all  the  pecuniary  advantages  of 
extreme  penury  and  forlorn  position,  the  Comedian  obtained 
the  respect  due  to  prosperous  circumstances  and4iigh  renown. 
But  there  was  one  universal  wish  expressed  by  all  who  had 
been  present,  as  they  took  their  way  homeward;  and  that 
wish  was  to  renew  the  pleasure  they  had  experienced,  even  if 
they  paid  the  same  price  for  it.  Could  not  the  long-closed 
theatre  be  re-opened,  and  the  great  man  be  induced  by  philan- 
thropic motives,  and  an  assured  sum  raised  by  voluntary  sub- 
scriptions, to  gratify  the  whole  town,  as  he  had  gratified  its 
selected  intellect?  Mr.  Williams,  in  a  state  of  charitable 
thaw,  now  softest  of  the  soft,  like  most  hard  men  when  once 
softened,  suggested  this  idea  to  the  Mayor.  The  Mayor  said 
evasively  that  he  would  think  of  it,  and  that  he  intended  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Mr.4  Chapman  before  he  returned  home, 
that  very  night:  it  was  proper.  Mr.  Williams  and  many 
others  wished  to  accompany  his  worship.  But  the  kind  mag- 
istrate suggested  that  Mr.  Chapman  would  be  greatly  fa- 
tigued: that  the  presence  of  many  might  seem  more  an 
intrusion  than  a  compliment;  that  he,  the  Mayor,  had  better 
go  alone,  and  at  a  somewhat  later  hour,  when  Mr.  Chapman, 
though  not  retired  to  bed,  might  have  had  time  for  rest  and 
refreshment.  This  delicate  consideration  had  its  weight;  and 
the  streets  were  thin  when  the  Mayor's  gig  stopped,  on  its 
way  villa-wards,  at  the  Saracen's  Head. 

VOL.  I.  — 14 


210  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

IT  is  the  interval  between  our  first  repinings  and  our  final  resignation,  in 
which,  both  with  individuals  and  communities,  is  to  be  found  all  that 
makes  a  history  worth  telling.  Ere  yet  we  yearn  for  what  is  out  of  our 
reach,  we  are  still  in  the  cradle.  When  wearied  out  with  our  yearnings, 
desire  again  falls  asleep ;  we  are  on  the  deathbed. 

SOPHY  (leaning  on  her  grandfather's  arm  as  they  ascend 
the  stair  of  the  Saracen's  Head).  —  "But  I  am  so  tired, 
Grandy :  I  'd  rather  go  to  bed  at  once,  please ! " 

GENTLEMAN  WAIFE.  —  "  Surely  you  could  take  something 
to  eat  first  —  something  nice, — Miss  Chapman?"  —  (Whisper- 
ing close),  "We  can  live  in  clover  now, — a  phrase  which 
means  "  (aloud  to  the  landlady,  who  crossed  the  landing-place 
above)  "grilled  chicken  and  mushrooms  for  supper,  ma'am! 
Why  don't  you  smile,  Sophy?  Oh,  darling,  you  are  ill!" 

"No,  no,  Grandy,  dear;  only  tired:  let  me  go  to  bed.  I 
shall  be  better  to-morrow ;  I  shall  indeed ! " 

Waife  looked  fondly  into  her  face,  but  his  spirits  were  too 
much  exhilarated  to  allow  him  to  notice  the  unusual  flush 
upon  her  cheek,  except  with  admiration  of  the  increased 
beauty  which  the  heightened  colour  gave  to  her  soft 
features. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  pretty  child! — a  very  pretty 
child,  and  you  act  wonderfully.  You  would  make  a  fortune 
on  the  stage;  but  —  " 

SOPHY  (eagerly).  —  "  But  —  no,  no,  never !  —  not  the  stage !  " 

WAIFE.  —  "I  don't  wish  you  to  go  on  the  stage,  as  you 
know.  A  private  exhibition  —  like  the  one  to-night,  for  in- 
stance—  has"  (thrusting  his  hand  into  his  pocket)  "much  to 
recommend  it." 

SOPHY  (with  a  sigh).  — "Thank  Heaven!  that  is  over  now; 
and  you  '11  not  be  in  want  of  money  for  a  long,  long  time  ! 
Dear  Sir  Isaac!" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  211 

She  began  caressing  Sir  Isaac,  who  received  her  attentions 
with  solemn  pleasure.  They  were  now  in  Sophy's  room;  and 
Waife,  after  again  pressing  the  child  in  vain  to  take  some 
refreshment,  "bestowed  on  her  his  kiss  and  blessing,  and  whis- 
tled "Malbrook  s'en  va-t-en  guerre"  to  Sir  Isaac,  who,  con- 
sidering that  melody  an  invitation  to  supper,  licked  his  lips, 
and  stalked  forth,  rejoicing,  but  decorous. 

Left  alone,  the  child  breathed  long  and  hard,  pressing  her 
hands  to  her  bosom,  and  sank  wearily  on  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
There  were  no  shutters  to  the  window,  and  the  moonlight 
came  in  gently,  stealing  across  that  part  of  the  wall  and  floor 
which  the  ray  of  the  candle  left  in  shade.  The  girl  raised 
her  eyes  slowly  towards  the  window, — towards  the  glimpse 
of  the  blue  sky,  and  the  slanting  lustre  of  the  moon.  There 
is  a  certain  epoch  in  our  childhood,  when  what  is  called  the 
romance  of  sentiment  first  makes  itself  vaguely  felt.  And 
ever  with  the  dawn  of  that  sentiment  the  moon  and  the  stars 
take  a  strange  and  haunting  fascination.  Few  persons  in 
middle  life  —  even  though  they  be  genuine  poets  —  feel  the 
peculiar  spell  in  the  severe  stillness  and  mournful  splendour 
of  starry  skies  which  impresses  most  of  us,  even  though  no 
poets  at  all,  in  that  mystic  age  when  Childhood  nearly  touches 
upon  Youth,  and  turns  an  unquiet  heart  to  those  marvellous 
riddles  within  us  and  without,  which  we  cease  to  conjecture 
when  experience  has  taught  us  that  they  have  no  solution 
upon  this  side  the  grave.  Lured  by  the  light,  the  child  rose 
softly,  approached  the  window,  and,  resting  her  upturned 
face  upon  both  hands,  gazed  long  into  the  heavens,  commun- 
ing evidently  with  herself,  for  her  lips  moved  and  murmured 
indistinctly.  Slowly  she  retired  from  the  casement,  and 
again  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  disconsolate. 
And  then  her  thoughts  ran  somewhat  thus,  though  she  might 
not  have  shaped  them  exactly  in  the  same  words:  "No,  I 
cannot  understand  it.  Why  was  I  contented  and  happy  be- 
fore I  knew  him  ?  Why  did  I  see  no  harm,  no  shame  in  this 
way  of  life  —  not  even  on  that  stage  with  those  people  —  until 
he  said,  'It  was  what  he  wished  I  had  never  stooped  to'? 
And  Grandfather  says  our  paths  are  so  different  they  can- 


212  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

not  cross  each  other  again.  There  is  a  path  of  life,  then, 
which  I  can  never  enter;  there  is  a  path  on  which  I  must 
always,  always  walk,  always,  always,  always  that  path,  ->-  no 
escape!  Never  to  come  into  that  other  one  where  there  is 
no  disguise,  no  hiding,  no  false  names, —  never,  never!  "  she 
started  impatiently,  and  with  a  wild  look, —  "It  is  killing 
me!" 

Then,  terrified  by  her  own  impetuosity,  she  threw  herself 
on  the  bed,  weeping  low.  Her  heart  had  now  gone  back  to 
her  grandfather;  it  was  smiting  her  for  ingratitude  to  him. 
Could  there  be  shame  or  wrong  in  what  he  asked, —  what  he 
did?  And  was  she  to  murmur  if  she  aided  him  to  exist? 
What  was  the  opinion  of  a  stranger  boy  compared  to  the  ap- 
proving sheltering  love  of  her  sole  guardian  and  tried  foster- 
ing friend?  And  could  people  choose  their  own  callings  and 
modes  of  life?  If  one  road  went  this  way,  another  that, 
and  they  on  the  one  road  were  borne  farther  and  farther  away 
from  those  on  the  other  —  as  that  idea  came,  consolation 
stopped,  and  in  her  noiseless  weeping  there  was  a  bitterness 
as  of  despair.  But  the  tears  ended  by  relieving  the  grief 
that  caused  them.  Wearied  out  of  conjecture  and  complaint, 
her  mind  relapsed  into  the  old  native,  childish  submission. 
With  a  fervour  in  which  there  was  self-reproach  she  repeated 
her  meek,  nightly  prayer,  that  God  would  bless  her  dear 
grandfather,  and  suffer  her  to  be  his  comfort  and  support. 
Then  mechanically  she  undressed,  extinguished  the  candle, 
and  crept  into  bed.  The  moonlight  became  bolder  and  bolder; 
it  advanced  up  the  floors,  along  the  walls ;  now  it  floods  her 
very  pillow,  and  seems  to  her  eyes  to  take  a  holy  loving  kind- 
ness, holier  and  more  loving  as  the  lids  droop  beneath  it.  A 
vague  remembrance  of  some  tale  of  "guardian  spirits,"  with 
which  Waife  had  once  charmed  her  wonder,  stirred  through 
her  lulling  thoughts,  linking  itself  with  the  presence  of  that 
encircling  moonlight.  There!  see  the  eyelids  are  closed,  no 
tear  upon  their  fringe.  See  the  dimples  steal  out  as  the 
sweet  lips  are  parted.  She  sleeps,  she  dreams  already! 
Where  and  what  is  the  rude  world  of  waking  now?  Are 
there  not  guardian  spirits?  Deride  the  question  if  thou  wilt, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  213 

stern  man,  the  reasoning  and  self-reliant;  but  thou,  0  fair 
mother,  who  hast  marked  the  strange  happiness  on  the  face 
of  a  child  that  has  wept  itself  to  sleep,  what  sayest  thou  to 
the  soft  tradition,  which  surely  had  its  origin  in  the  heart  of 
the  earliest  mother? 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THERE  is  no  man  so  friendless  but  what  he  can  find  a  friend  sincere 
enough  to  tell  him  disagreeable  truths. 

MEANWHILE  the  Comedian  had  made  himself  and  Sir  Isaac 
extremely  comfortable.  No  unabstemious  man  by  habit  was 
Gentleman  Waife.  He  could  dine  on  a  crust,  and  season  it 
with  mirth;  and  as  for  exciting  drinks,  there  was  a  childlike 
innocence  in  his  humour  never  known  to  a  brain  that  has 
been  washed  in  alcohol.  But  on  this  special  occasion,  Waife's 
heart  was  made  so  bounteous  by  the  novel  sense  of  prosperity 
that  it  compelled  him  to  treat  himself.  He  did  honour  to  the 
grilled  chicken  to  which  he  had  vainly  tempted  Sophy.  He 
ordered  half  a  pint  of  port  to  be  mulled  into  negus.  He 
helped  himself  with  a  bow,  as  if  himself  were  a  guest,  and 
nodded  each  time  he  took  off  his  glass,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Your  health,  Mr.  Waife !  "  He  even  offered  a  glass  of  the 
exhilarating  draught  to  Sir  Isaac,  who,  exceedingly  offended, 
retreated  under  the  sofa,  whence  he  peered  forth  through  his 
deciduous  ringlets,  with  brows  knit  in  grave  rebuke.  Nor 
was  it  without  deliberate  caution  —  a  whisker  first,  and  then 
a  paw  —  that  he  emerged  from  his  retreat,  when  a  plate 
heaped  with  the  remains  of  the  feast  was  placed  upon  the 
hearth-rug. 

The  supper  over,  and  the  attendant  gone,  the  negus  still 
left,  Waife  lighted  his  pipe,  and,  gazing  on  Sir  Isaac,  thus 
addressed  that  canine  philosopher:  "Illustrious  member  of 
the  Quadrupedal  Society  of  Friends  to  Man,  and,  as  possessing 


214  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

those  abilities  for  practical  life  which  but  few  friends  to  man 
ever  display  in  his  service,  promoted  to  high  rank  —  Commis- 
sary-General of  the  Victualling  Department,  and  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  —  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  a 
vote  of  thanks  in  your  favour  has  been  proposed  in  this 
house,  and  carried  unanimously."  Sir  Isaac,  looking  shy, 
gave  another  lick  to  the  plate,  and  wagged  his  tail.  "  It  is 
true  that  thou  wert  once  (shall  I  say  it?)  in  fault  at  'Beauty 
and  Worth, '  —  thy  memory  deserted  thee ;  thy  peroration  was 
on  the  verge  of  a  breakdown;  but  'Nemo  mortalium  omnibus 
horis  sapit, '  as  the  Latin  grammar  philosophically  expresseth 
it.  Mortals  the  wisest,  not  only  on  two  legs  but  even  upon 
four,  occasionally  stumble.  The  greatest  general,  statesman, 
sage,  is  not  he  who  commits  no  blunder,  but  he  who  best  re- 
pairs a  blunder  and  converts  it  to  success.  This  was  thy 
merit  and  distinction!  It  hath  never  been  mine!  I  recog- 
nize thy  superior  genius.  I  place  in  thee  unqualified  confi- 
dence ;  and  consigning  thee  to  the  arms  of  Morpheus,  since  I 
see  that  panegyric  acts  on  thy  nervous  system  as  a  salubrious 
soporific,  I  now  move  that  this  House  do  resolve  itself  into  a 
Committee  of  Ways  and  Means  for  the  Consideration  of  the 
Budget!" 

Therewith,  while  Sir  Isaac  fell  into  a  profound  sleep  the 
Comedian  deliberately  emptied  his  pockets  on  the  table ;  and 
arranging  gold  and  silver  before  him,  thrice  carefully  counted 
the  total,  and  then  divided  it  into  sundry  small  heaps. 

"That's  for  the  bill,"  quoth  he,— "Civil  List!  — a  large 
item.  That's  for  Sophy,  the  darling!  She  shall  have  a 
teacher,  and  learn  Music, —  Education  Grant;  Current  Ex- 
penses for  the  next  fortnight;  Miscellaneous  Estimates;  to- 
bacco,—  we'll  call  that  Secret-service  Money.  Ah,  scamp, 
vagrant,  is  not  Heaven  kind  to  thee  at  last?  A  few  more 
such  nights,  and  who  knows  but  thine  old  age  may  have 
other  roof  than  the  workhouse?  And  Sophy?  —  Ah,  what  of 
her?  Merciful  Providence,  spare  my  life  till  she  has  out- 
grown its  uses ! "  A  tear  came  to  his  eye ;  he  brushed  it 
away  quickly,  and,  recounting  his  money,  hummed  a  joyous 
tune. 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO   WITH  IT?  215 

The  door  opened;  Waife  looked  up  in  surprise,  sweeping 
his  hand  over  the  coins,  and  restoring  them  to  his  pocket. 

The  Mayor  entered. 

As  Mr.  Hartopp  walked  slowly  up  the  room,  his  eye  fixed 
Waife's;  and  that  eye  was  so  searching,  though  so  mild,  that 
the  Comedian  felt  himself  change  colour.  His  gay  spirits 
fell, — falling  lower  and  lower,  the  nearer  the  Mayor's  step 
came  to  him;  and  when  Hartopp,  without  speaking,  took  his 
hand,  —  not  in  compliment,  not  in  congratulation,  but  pressed 
it  as  if  in  deep  compassion,  still  looking  him  full  in  the  face, 
with  those  pitying,  penetrating  eyes,  the  actor  experienced  a 
sort  of  shock  as  if  he  were  read  through,  despite  all  his  his- 
trionic disguises,  read  through  to  his  heart's  core;  and,  as 
silent  as  his  visitor,  sank  back  in  his  chair,  —  abashed, 
disconcerted. 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "Poor  man!  " 

THE  COMEDIAN  (rousing  himself  with  an  effort,  but  still 
confused).  —  "Down,  Sir  Isaac,  down!  This  visit,  Mr. 
Mayor,  is  an  honour  which  may  well  take  a  dog  by  surprise ! 
Forgive  him ! " 

MR.  HARTOPP  (patting  Sir  Isaac,  who  was  inquisitively 
sniffing  his  garments,  and  drawing  a  chair  close  to  the  actor, 
who  thereon  edged  his  own  chair  a  little  away, —  in  vain; 
for,  on  that  movement,  Mr.  Hartopp  advanced  in  proportion). 
—  "  Your  dog  is  a  very  admirable  and  clever  animal ;  but  in 
the  exhibition  of  a  learned  dog  there  is  something  which 
tends  to  sadden  one.  By  what  privations  has  he  been  forced 
out  of  his  natural  ways?  By  what  fastings  and  severe  usage 
have  his  instincts  been  distorted  into  tricks?  Hunger  is  a 
stern  teacher,  Mr.  Chapman;  and  to  those  whom  it  teaches, 
we  cannot  always  give  praise  unmixed  with  pity." 

THE  COMEDIAN  (ill  at  ease  under  this  allegorical  tone,  and 
surprised  at  a  quicker  intelligence  in  Mr,  Hartopp  than  he 
had  given  that  person  credit  for).  —  "You  speak  like  an  ora- 
cle, Mr.  Mayor;  but  that  dog,  at  least,  has  been  mildly  edu- 
cated and  kindly  used.  Inborn  genius,  sir,  will  have  its 
vent.  Hum!  a  most  intelligent  audience  honoured  us 
to-night;  and  our  best  thanks  are  due  to  you." 


216  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

MR.  HARTOPP.* — "Mr.  Chapman,  let  us  be  frank  with  each 
other.  I  am  not  a  clever  man;  perhaps  a  dull  one.  If  I  had 
set  up  for  a  clever  man,  I  should  not  be  where  I  am  now. 
Hush!  no  compliments.  But  my  life  has  brought  me  into 
frequent  contact  with  those  who  suffer ;  and  the  dullest  of  us 
gain  a  certain  sharpness  in  the  matters  to  which  our  observa- 
tion is  habitually  drawn.  You  took  me  in  at  first,  it  is  true. 
I  thought  you  were  a  philanthropical  humourist,  who  might 
have  crotchets,  as  many  benevolent  men,  with  time  on  their 
hands  and  money  in  their  pockets,  are  apt  to  form.  But 
when  it  came  to  the  begging  hat  (I  ask  your  pardon ;  don't 
let  me  offend  you),  when  it  came  to  the  begging  hat,  I  rec- 
ognized the  man  who  wants  philanthropy  from  others,  and 
whose  crotchets  are  to  be  regarded  in  a  professional  point  of 
view.  Sir,  I  have  come  here  alone,  because  I  alone  perhaps 
see  the  case  as  it  really  is.  Will  you  confide  in  me?  you 
may  do  it  safely.  To  be  plain,  who  and  what  are  you?" 

THE  COMEDIAN  (evasively).  —  "What  do  you  take  me  for, 
Mr.  Mayor?  What  can  I  be  other  than  an  itinerant  showman, 
who  has  had  resort  to  a  harmless  stratagem  in  order  to  obtain 
an  audience,  and  create  a  surprise  that  might  cover  the 
naked  audacity  of  the  'begging  hat'!" 

MR.  HARTOPP  (gravely).  —  "When  a  man  of  your  ability 
and  education  is  reduced  to  such  stratagems,  he  must  have 
committed  some  great  faults.  Pray  Heaven  it  be  no  worse 
than  faults ! " 

THE  COMEDIAN  (bitterly).  — "That  is  always  the  way  with 
the  prosperous.  Is  a  man  unfortunate?  They  say,  'Why  don't 
he  help  himself? '  Does  he  try  to  help  himself?  They  say, 
'With  so  much  ability,  why  does  not  he  help  himself  better? ' 
Ability  and  education!  Snares  and  springes,  Mr.  Mayor! 
Ability  and  education!  the  two  worst  mantraps  that  a  poor 
fellow  can  put  his  foot  into!  Aha!  Did  not  you  say  if  you 
had  set  up  to  be  clever,  you  would  not  be  where  you  now  are? 
A  wise  saying;  I  admire  you  for  it.  Well,  well,  I  and  my 
dog  have  amused  your  townsfolk ;  they  have  amply  repaid  us. 
We  are  public  servants ;  according  as  we  act  in  public  —  hiss 
us  or  applaud.  Are  we  to  submit  to  an  inquisition  into  our 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  217 

private  character?  Are  you  to  ask  how  many  mutton  bones 
has  that  dog  stolen?  how  many  cats  has  he  worried?  or  how 
many  shirts  has  the  showman  in  his  wallet?  how  many  debts 
has  he  left  behind  him?  what  is  his  rent-roll  on  earth,  and 
his  account  with  Heaven?  Go  and  put  those  questions  to 
ministers,  philosophers,  generals,  poets.  When  they  have 
acknowledged  your  right  to  put  them,  come  to  me  and  the 
other  dog." 

MR.  HARTOPP  (rising  and  drawing  on  his  gloves).  —  "I 
beg  your  pardon !  I  have  done,  sir.  And  yet  I  conceived  an 
interest  in  you.  It  is  because  I  have  no  talents  myself  that 
I  admire  those  who  have.  I  felt  a  mournful  anxiety,  too,  for 
your  poor  little  girl, —  so  young,  so  engaging.  And  is  it 
necessary  that  you  should  bring  up  that  child  in  a  course  of 
life  certainly  equivocal,  and  to  females  dangerous?" 

The  Comedian  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly,  and  stared  hard  at 
the  face  of  his  visitor,  and  in  that  face  there  was  so  much  of 
benevolent  humanity,  so  much  sweetness  contending  with 
authoritative  rebuke,  that  the  vagabond's  hardihood  gave 
way!  He  struck  his  breast,  and  groaned  aloud. 

MR.  HARTOPP  (pressing  on  the  advantage  he  had  gained). 
—  "And  have  you  no  alarm  for  her  health?  Do  you  not  see 
how  delicate  she  is?  Do  you  not  see  that  her  very  talent 
comes  from  her  susceptibility  to  emotions  which  must  wear 
her  away?" 

WAIFE.  — "  No,  no !  stop,  stop,  stop !  you  terrify  me,  you 
break  my  heart.  Man,  man!  it  is  all  for  her  that  I  toil  and 
show  and  beg, —  if  you  call  it  begging.  Do  you  think  I  care 
what  becomes  of  this  battered  hulk?  Not  a  straw.  What  am 
I  to  do?  What!  what!  You  tell  me  to  confide  in  you; 
wherefore?  How  can  you  help  me?  Would  you  give  me 
employment?  What  am  I  fit  for?  Nothing!  You  could 
find  work  and  bread  for  an  Irish  labourer,  nor  ask  who  or 
what  he  was;  but  to  a  man  who  strays  towards  you,  seem- 
ingly from  a  sphere  in  which,  if  Poverty  enters,  she  drops  a 
courtesy,  and  is  called  'genteel,'  you  cry,  'Hold,  produce  your 
passport;  where  are  your  credentials,  references?'  I  have 
none.  I  have  slipped  out  of  the  world  I  once  moved  in.  I 


218  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

can  no  more  appeal  to  those  I  knew  in  it  than  if  I  had  trans- 
migrated from  one  of  yon  stars,  and  said,  'See  there  what  I 
was  once!'  Oh,  but  you  do  not  think  she  looks  ill!  — do  you? 
do  you?  Wretch  that  I  am!  And  I  thought  to  save  her!  " 

The  old  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  cheek 
was  as  pale  as  ashes. 

Again  the  good  magistrate  took  his  hand,  but  this  time  the 
clasp  was  encouraging.  "Cheer  up:  where  there  is  a  will 
there  is  a  way ;  you  justify  the  opinion  I  formed  in  your  fa- 
vour despite  all  circumstances  to  the  contrary.  When  I 
asked  you  to  confide  in  me,  it  was  not  from  curiosity,  but 
because  I  would  serve  you  if  I  can.  Reflect  on  what  I  have 
said.  True,  you  can  know  but  little  of  me.  Learn  what  is 
said  of  me  by  my  neighbours  before  you  trust  me  further. 
For  the  rest,  to-morrow  you  will  have  many  proposals  to 
renew  your  performance.  Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  actively 
encourage  it.  I  will  not,  at  least,  interfere  to  your  detri- 
ment; but  —  " 

"But,"  exclaimed  Waife,  not  much  heeding  this  address, 
"but  you  think  she  looks  ill?  you  think  this  is  injuring  her? 
you  think  I  am  murdering  my  grandchild, —  my  angel  of  life, 
my  all?" 

"Not  so;  I  spoke  too  bluntly.     Yet  still  —  " 

"Yes,  yes,  yet  still  — " 

"  Still,  if  you  love  her  so  dearly,  would  you  blunt  her  con- 
science and  love  of  truth?  Were  you  not  an  impostor  to- 
night? Would  you  ask  her  to  reverence  and  imitate  and 
pray  for  an  impostor?" 

"  I  never  saw  it  in  that  light ! "  faltered  Waife,  struck  to 
the  soul ;  "  never,  never,  so  help  me  Heaven ! " 

"I  felt  sure  you  did  not,"  said  the  Mayor;  "you  saw  but 
the  sport  of  the  thing;  you  took  to  it  as  a  schoolboy.  I  have 
known  many  such  men,  with  high  animal  spirits  like  yours. 
Such  men  err  thoughtlessly;  but  did  they  ever  sin  con- 
sciously, they  could  not  keep  those  high  spirits !  Good  night, 
Mr.  Chapman,  I  shall  hear  from  you  again." 

The  door  closed  on  the  form  of  the  visitor;  Waife's  head 
sank  on  his  breast,  and  all  the  deep  lines  upon  brow  and 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT?  219 

cheek  stood  forth,  records  of  mighty  griefs  revived,  —  a 
countenance  so  altered,  now  its  innocent  arch  play  was  gone, 
that  you  would  not  have  known  it.  At  length  he  rose  very 
quietly,  took  up  the  candle,  and  stole  into  Sophy's  room. 
Shading  the  light  with  careful  hand,  he  looked  on  her  face  as 
she  slept.  The  smile  was  still  upon  the  parted  lip :  the  child 
was  still  in  the  fairyland  of  dreams.  But  the  cheek  was 
thinner  than  it  had  been  weeks  ago,  and  the  little  hand  that 
rested  on  the  coverlet  seemed  wasted.  Waife  took  that  hand 
noiselessly  into  his  own !  it  was  hot  and  dry.  He  dropped  it 
with  a  look  of  unutterable  fear  and  anguish,  and,  shaking  his 
head  piteously,  stole  back  again.  Seating  himself  by  the 
table  at  which  he  had  been  caught  counting  his  gains,  he 
folded  his  arms,  and  rooted  his  gaze  on  the  floor;  and  there, 
motionless,  and  as  if  in  stupefied  suspense  of  thought  itself, 
he  sat  till  the  dawn  crept  over  the  sky, —  till  the  sun  shone 
into  the  windows.  The  dog,  crouched  at  his  feet,  sometimes 
started  up  and  whined  as  to  attract  his  notice:  he  did  not 
heed  it.  The  clock  struck  six;  the  house  began  to  stir.  The 
chambermaid  came  into  the  room.  Waife  rose  and  took  his 
hat,  brushing  its  nap  mechanically  with  his  sleeve.  "  Who 
did  you  say  was  the  best  here?"  he  asked  with  a  vacant 
smile,  touching  the  chambermaid's  arm. 

"Sir!  the  best  — what?" 

"  The  best  doctor,  ma'am ;  none  of  your  parish  apothecaries, 
—  the  best  physician, —  Dr.  Gill, — did  you  say  Gill?  Thank 
you;  his  address,  High  Street.  Close  by,  ma'am."  With  his 
grand  bow, —  such  is  habit!  —  Gentleman  Waife  smiled  gra- 
ciously, and  left  the  room.  Sir  Isaac  stretched  himself  and 
followed. 


220  WIIAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTEE  XVI. 

IN  every  civilized  society  there  is  found  a  race  of  men  who  retain  the  instincts 
of  the  aboriginal  cannibal,  and  live  upon  their  fellow-men  as  a  natural 
food.  These  interesting  but  formidable  bipeds,  having  caught  their  victim, 
invariably  select  one  part  of  his  body  on  which  to  fasten  their  relentless 
grinders.  The  part  thus  selected  is  peculiarly  susceptible,  Providence  hav- 
ing made  it  alive  to  the  least  nibble ;  it  is  situated  just  above  the  hip-joint, 
it  is  protected  by  a  tegument  of  exquisite  fibre,  vulgarly  called  "  THE 
BREECHES  POCKET."  The  thoroughbred  Anthropophagite  usually  begins 
with  his  own  relations  and  friends  ;  and  so  long  as  he  confines  his  voracity 
to  the  domestic  circle,  the  law  interferes  little,  if  at  all,  with  his  venerable 
propensities.  But  when  he  has  exhausted  all  that  allows  itself  to  be  edible 
in  the  bosom  of  private  life,  the  man-eater  falls  loose  on  society,  and  takes 
to  prowling,  — then  "  Sauve  qui  peut  !  "  the  laws  rouse  themselves,  put  on 
their  spectacles,  call  for  their  wigs  and  gowns,  and  the  Anthropophagite 
turned  prowler  is  not  always  sure  of  his  dinner.  It  is  when  he  has  arrived 
at  this  stage  of  development  that  the  man-eater  becomes  of  importance, 
enters  into  the  domain  of  history,  and  occupies  the  thoughts  of  Moralists. 

ON  the  same  morning  in  which  Waife  thus  went  forth  from 
the  Saracen's  Head  in  quest  of  the  doctor,  but  at  a  later  hour, 
a  man,  who,  to  judge  by  the  elaborate  smartness  of  his  attire, 
and  the  jaunty  assurance  of  his  saunter,  must  have  wandered 
from  the  gay  purlieus  of  Regent  Street,  threaded  his  way 
along  the  silent  and  desolate  thoroughfares  that  intersect  the 
remotest  districts  of  Bloomsbury.  He  stopped  at  the  turn 
into  a  small  street  still  more  sequestered  than  those  which 
led  to  it,  and  looked  up  to  the  angle  'on  the  wall  whereon  the 
name  of  the  street  should  have  been  inscribed.  But  the  wall 
had  been  lately  whitewashed,  and  the  whitewash  had  obliter- 
ated the  expected  epigraph.  The  man  muttered  an  impatient 
execration;  and,  turning  round  as  if  to  seek  a  passenger  of 
whom  to  make  inquiry,  beheld  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way  another  man  apparently  engaged  in  the  same  research. 
Involuntarily  each  crossed  over  the  road  towards  the  other. 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  221 

"Pray,  sir,"  quoth  the  second  wayfarer  in  that  desert, 
"can  you  tell  me  if  this  is  a  street  that  is  called  a  Place, — 
Podden  Place,  Upper?" 

"  Sir, "  returned  the  sprucer  wayfarer,  "  it  is  the  question  I 
would  have  asked  of  you." 

"Strange!" 

"  Very  strange  indeed  that  more  than  one  person  can,  in  this 
busy  age,  employ  himself  in  discovering  a  Podden  Place! 
Not  a  soul  to  inquire  of,  —  not  a  shop  that  I  see,  not  an 
orange-stall ! " 

"Ha!  "  cried  the  other,  in  a  hoarse  sepulchral  voice,  "Ha! 
there  is  a  pot-boy!  Boy!  boy!  boy!  I  say.  Hold,  there! 
hold !  Is  this  Podden  Place,—  Upper?  " 

"Yes,  it  be,"  answered  the  pot-boy,  with  a  sleepy  air, 
caught  in  that  sleepy  atmosphere;  and  chiming  his  pewter 
against  an  area  rail  with  a  dull  clang,  he  chanted  forth  "  Pots 
oho !  "  with  a  note  as  dirge-like  as  that  which  in  the  City  of 
the  Plague  chanted  "  Out  with  the  dead !  " 

Meanwhile  the  two  wayfarers  exchanged  bows  and  parted; 
the  sprucer  wayfarer  whether  from  the  indulgence  of  a  reflec- 
tive mood,  or  from  an  habitual  indifference  to  things  and  per- 
sons not  concerning  him,  ceased  to  notice  his  fellow-solitary, 
and  rather  busied  himself  in  sundry  little  coquetries  apper- 
taining to  his  own  person.  He  passed  his  hand  through  his 
hair,  re-arranged  the  cock  of  his  hat,  looked  complacently  at 
his  boots,  which  still  retained  the  gloss  of  the  morning's 
varnish,  drew  down  his  wristbands,  and,  in  a  word,  gave  sign 
of  a  man  who  desires  to  make  an  effect,  and  feels  that  he 
ought  to  do  it.  So  occupied  was  he  in  this  self -commune 
that  when  he  stopped  at  length  at  one  of  the  small  doors  in 
the  small  street  and  lifted  his  hand  to  the  knocker,  he  started 
to  see  that  Wayfarer  the  Second  was  by  his  side.  The  two 
men  now  examined  each  other  briefly  but  deliberately.  Way- 
farer the  First  was  still  young, — certainly  handsome,  but 
with  an  indescribable  look  about  the  eye  and  lip,  from  which 
the  other  recoiled  with  an  instinctive  awe, —  a  hard  look,  a 
cynical  look, —  a  sidelong,  quiet,  defying,  remorseless  look. 
His  clothes  were  so  new  of  gloss  that  they  seemed  put  on  for 


222  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

the  first  time,  were  shaped  to  the  prevailing  fashion,  and  of 
a  taste  for  colours  less  subdued  than  is  usual  with  English- 
men, yet  still  such  as  a  person  of  good  mien  could  wear  with- 
out incurring  the  charge  of  vulgarity,  though  liable  to  that  of 
self-conceit.  If  you  doubted  that  the  man  were  a  gentleman, 
you  would  have  been  puzzled  to  guess  what  else  he  could  be. 
Were  it  not  for  the  look  we  have  mentioned,  and  which  was 
perhaps  not  habitual,  his  appearance  might  have  been  called 
prepossessing.  In  his  figure  there  was  the  grace,  in  his  step 
the  elasticity  which  come  from  just  proportions  and  muscular 
strength.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  supple  switch-stick,  slight 
and  innocuous  to  appearance,  but  weighted  at  the  handle 
after  the  fashion  of  a  life-preserver.  The  tone  of  his  voice 
was  not  displeasing  to  the  ear,  though  there  might  be  some- 
thing artificial  in  the  swell  of  it, — the  sort  of  tone  men  as- 
sume when  they  desire  to  seem  more  frank  and  off-hand  than 
belongs  to  their  nature, —  a  sort  of  rollicking  tone  which  is 
to  the  voice  what  swagger  is  to  the  gait.  Still  that  look! 
it  produced  on  you  the  effect  which  might  be  created  by  some 
strange  animal,  not  without  beauty,  but  deadly  to  man. 
Wayfarer  the  Second  was  big  and  burly,  middle-aged,  large- 
whiskered,  his  complexion  dirty.  He  wore  a  wig, — a  wig 
evident,  unmistakable, — a  wig  curled  and  rusty, —  over  the 
wig  a  dingy  white  hat.  His  black  stock  fitted  tight  round 
his  throat,  and  across  his  breast  he  had  thrown  the  folds  of  a 
Scotch  plaid. 

WAYFARER  THE  FIRST.  —  "You  call  here,  too, —  on  Mrs. 
Crane?" 

WAYFARER  THE  SECOND.  —  "Mrs.  Crane?  you  too? 
Strange ! " 

WAYFARER  THE  FIRST  (with  constrained  civility).  —  "Sir, 
I  call  on  business, — private  business." 

WAYFARER  THE  SECOND  (with  candid  surliness).  —  "So 
do  I." 

WAYFARER  THE  FIRST.  —  "  Oh !  " 

WAYFARER  THE  SECOND.  —  "Ha!  the  locks  unbar!  " 

The  door  opened,  and  an  old  meagre  woman-servant 
presented  herself. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  223 

WAYFARER  THE  FIRST  (gliding  before  the  big  man  with  a 
serpent's  undulating  celerity  of  movement). — "Mrs.  Crane 
lives  here?"  — "Yes!"  "She's  at  home  I  suppose?"  — 
"  Yes ! "  "  Take  up  my  card ;  say  I  come  alone,  not  with 
this  gentleman." 

Wayfarer  the  Second  seems  to  have  been  rather  put  out  by 
the  manner  of  his  rival.  He  recedes  a  step. 

"You  know  the  lady  of  this  mansion  well,  sir?" 

"Extremely  well." 

"Ha!  then  I  yield  you  the  precedence;  I  yield  it,  sir,  but 
conditionally.  You  will  not  be  long?" 

"Not  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help;  the  land  will  be 
clear  for  you  in  an  hour  or  less." 

"Or  less,  so  please  you,  let  it  be  or  less.     Servant,  sir." 

"Sir,  yours:  come,  my  Hebe,  track  the  dancers;  that  is, 
go  up  the  stairs,  and  let  me  renew  the  dreams  of  youth  in 
the  eyes  of  Bella !  " 

The  old  woman  meanwhile  had  been  turning  over  the  card 
in  her  withered  palm,  looking  from  the  card  to  the  visitor's 
face,  and  then  to  the  card  again,  and  mumbling  to  herself. 
At  length  she  spoke : 

"You,  Mr.  Losely!  you!  —  Jasper  Losely!  how  you  be 
changed!  what  ha'  ye  done  to  yourself?  where  's  your  come- 
liness? where 's  the  look  that  stole  ladies'  hearts?  you, 
Jasper  Losely!  you  are  his  goblin!" 

"  Hold  your  peace,  old  hussey !  "  said  the  visitor,  evidently 
annoyed  at  remarks  so  disparaging.  "I  am  Jasper  Losely, 
more  bronzed  of  cheek,  more  iron  of  hand."  He  raised  his 
switch  with  a  threatening  gesture,  that  might  be  in  play,  for 
the  lips  wore  smiles,  or  might  be  in  earnest,  for  the  brows 
were  bent;  and  pushing  into  the  passage,  and  shutting  the 
door,  said,  "Is  your  mistress  up  stairs?  show  me  to  her  room, 
or  — "  The  old  crone  gave  him  one  angry  glance,  which 
sank  frightened  beneath  the  cruel  gleam  of  his  eyes,  and 
hastening  up  the  stairs  with  a  quicker  stride  than  her  age 
seemed  to  warrant,  cried  out,  "Mistress,  mistress!  here  is 
Mr.  Losely!  Jasper  Losely  himself!"  By  the  time  the 
visitor  had  reached  the  landing-place  of  the  first  floor,  a 


224  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

female  form  had  emerged  from  a  room  above,  a  female  face 
peered  over  the  banisters.  Losely  looked  up  and  started  as 
he  saw  it.  A  haggard  face, —  the  face  of  one  over  whose  life 
there  has  passed  a  blight.  When  last  seen  by  him  it  had 
possessed  beauty,  though  of  a  masculine  rather  than  womanly 
character.  Now  of  that  beauty  not  a  trace !  the  cheeks  shrunk 
and  hollow  left  the  nose  sharp,  long,  beaked  as  a  bird  of 
prey.  The  hair,  once  glossy  in  its  ebon  hue,  now  grizzled, 
harsh,  neglected,  hung  in  tortured,  tangled  meshes, —  a  study 
for  an  artist  who  would  paint  a  fury.  But  the  eyes  were 
bright, — brighter  than  ever;  bright  now  with  a  glare  that 
lighted  up  the  whole  face  bending  over  the  man.  In  those 
burning  eyes  was  there  love?  was  there  hate?  was  there 
welcome?  was  there  menace?  Impossible  to  distinguish;  but 
at  least  one  might  perceive  that  there  was  joy. 

"So,"  said  the  voice  from  above,  "so  we  do  meet  at  last, 
Jasper  Losely !  you  are  come ! " 

Drawing  a  loose  kind  of  dressing-robe  more  closely  round 
her,  the  mistress  of  the  house  now  descended  the  stairs, — 
rapidly,  flittingly,  with  a  step  noiseless  as  a  spectre's,  and, 
grasping  Losely  firmly  by  the  hand,  led  him  into  a  chill, 
dank,  sunless  drawing-room,  gazing  into  his  face  fixedly  all 
the  while. 

He  winced  and  writhed.  "There,  there,  let  us  sit  down, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Crane." 

"And  once  I  was  called  Bella." 

"Ages  ago!  Basta!  All  things  have  their  end.  Do  take 
those  eyes  of  yours  off  my  face ;  they  were  always  so  bright ! 
and  —  really  —  now  they  are  perfect  burning-glasses!  How 
close  it  is !  Peuh !  I  am  dead  tired.  May  I  ask  for  a  glass 
of  water;  a  drop  of  wine  in  it  —  or  —  brandy  will  do  as  well." 

"Ho!  you  have  come  to  brandy  and  morning  drams,  eh, 
Jasper?"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  with  a  strange,  dreary  accent. 
"I,  too,  once  tried  if  fire  could  burn  up  thought,  but  it  did 
not  succeed  with  me;  that  is  years  ago;  and  —  there  —  see 
the  bottles  are  full  still!" 

While  thus  speaking,  she  had  unlocked  a  chiffonniere  of  the 
shape  usually  found  in  "genteel  lodgings,"  and  taken  out  a 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  225 

leathern  spirit-case  containing  four  bottles,  with  a  couple  of 
wine-glasses.  This  case  she  placed  on  the  table  before  Mr. 
Losely,  and  contemplated  him  at  leisure  while  he  helped 
himself  to  the  raw  spirits. 

As  she  thus  stood,  an  acute  student  of  Lavater  might  have 
recognized,  in  her  harsh  and  wasted  countenance,  signs  of  an 
original  nature  superior  to  that  of  her  visitor ;  on  her  knitted 
brow,  a  sense  higher  in  quality  than  on  his  smooth  low  fore- 
head; on  her  straight  stern  lip,  less  cause  for  distrust  than 
in  the  false  good-humour  which  curved  his  handsome  mouth 
into  that  smile  of  the  fickle,  which,  responding  to  mirth  but 
not  to  affection,  is  often  lighted  and  never  warmed.  It  is 
true  that  in  that  set  pressure  of  her  lip  there  might  be  cru- 
elty, and,  still  more,  the  secretiveness  which  can  harbour  de- 
ceit; and  yet,  by  the  nervous  workings  of  that  lip,  when 
relieved  from  such  pressure,  you  would  judge  the  woman  to 
be  rather  by  natural  temperament  passionate  and  impulsive 
than  systematically  cruel  or  deliberately  false,  —  false  or 
cruel  only  as  some  predominating  passion  became  the  soul's 
absolute  tyrant,  and  adopted  the  tyrant's  vices.  Above  all, 
in  those  very  lines  destructive  to  beauty  that  had  been 
ploughed,  not  by  time,  over  her  sallow  cheeks,  there  was 
written  the  susceptibility  to  grief,  to  shame,  to  the  sense  of 
fall,  which  was  not  visible  in  the  unreflective,  reckless  aspect 
of  the  sleek  human  animal  before  her. 

In  the  room,  too,  there  were  some  evidences  of  a  cultivated 
taste.  On  the  walls,  book-shelves,  containing  volumes  of  a 
decorous  and  severe  literature,  such  as  careful  parents  allow 
to  studious  daughters, — the  stately  masterpieces  of  Fenelon 
and  Racine;  selections  approved  by  boarding-schools  from 
Tasso,  Dante,  Metastasio;  amongst  English  authors,  Addi- 
son,  Johnson,  Blair  (his  lectures  as  well  as  sermons);  ele- 
mentary works  on  such  sciences  as  admit  female  neophytes 
into  their  porticos,  if  not  into  their  penetralia, —  botany, 
chemistry,  astronomy.  Prim  as  soldiers  on  parade  stood  the 
books, —  not  a  gap  in  their  ranks, — evidently  never  now  dis- 
placed for  recreation;  well  bound,  yet  faded,  dusty;  relics  of 
a  bygone  life.  Some  of  them  might  perhaps  have  been  prizes 

VOL.  I.  —  15 


226  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

at  school,  or  birthday  gifts  from  proud  relations.  There,  too, 
on  the  table,  near  the  spirit-case,  lay  open  a  once  handsome 
workbox, —  no  silks  now  on  the  skeleton  reels;  discoloured, 
but  not  by  use,  in  its  nest  of  tarnished  silk  slept  the  golden 
thimble.  There,  too,  in  the  corner,  near  a  music-stand  piled 
high  with  musical  compositions  of  various  schools  and  grad- 
uated complexity  from  "  lessons  for  beginners  "  to  the  most 
arduous  gamut  of  a  German  oratorio,  slunk  pathetically  a 
poor  lute-harp,  the  strings  long  since  broken.  There,  too, 
by  the  window,  hung  a  wire  bird-cage,  the  bird  long  since 
dead.  In  a  word,  round  the  woman  gazing  on  Jasper  Losely, 
as  he  complacently  drank  his  brandy,  grouped  the  forlorn 
tokens  of  an  early  state, —  the  lost  golden  age  of  happy  girlish 
studies,  of  harmless  girlish  tastes. 

"  Basta,  eno',"  said  Mr.  Losely,  pushing  aside  the  glass 
which  he  had  twice  filled  and  twice  drained,  "to  business. 
Let  me  see  the  child:  I  feel  up  to  it  now." 

A  darker  shade  fell  over  Arabella  Crane's  face,  as  she  said, — 

"  The  child !  she  is  not  here !  I  have  disposed  of  her  long 
ago." 

"Eh!  —  disposed  of  her!  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Do  you  ask  as  if  you  feared  I  had  put  her  out  of  the 
world?  No!  Well,  then, — you  come  to  England  to  see  the 
child?  You  miss  —  you  love,  the  child  of  that  —  of  that  —  " 
She  paused,  checked  herself,  and  added  in  an  altered  voice, 
"of  that  honest,  high-minded  gentlewoman  whose  memory 
must  be  so  dear  to  me, — you  love  that  child;  very  natural, 
Jasper." 

"  Love  her!  a  child  I  have  scarcely  seen  since  she  was  born ! 
do  talk  common-sense.  No.  But  have  I  not  told  you  that 
she  ought  to  be  money's  worth  to  me ;  ay,  and  she  shall  be 
yet,  despite  that  proud  man's  disdainful  insolence." 

"  That  proud  man !  what,  you  have  ventured  to  address  him 
—  visit  him  —  since  your  return  to  England?" 

"Of  course.  That's  what  brought  me  over.  I  imagined 
the  man  would  rejoice  at  what  I  told  him,  open  his  purse- 
strings,  lavish  blessings  and  bank-notes.  And  the  brute 
would  not  even  believe  me;  all  because  — " 


WHAT  WILL    HE  DO   WITH  IT?  227 

"  Because  you  had  sold  the  right  to  be  believed  before.  1 
told  you,  when  I  took  the  child,  that  you  would  never  succeed 
there,  that  I  would  never  encourage  you  in  the  attempt.  But 
you  had  sold  the  future  as  you  sold  your  past,  —  too  cheaply, 
it  seems,  Jasper." 

"  Too  cheaply,  indeed.  Who  could  ever  have  supposed  that 
I  should  have  been  fobbed  off  with  such  a  pittance?" 

"  Who,  indeed,  Jasper !  You  were  made  to  spend  fortunes, 
and  call  them  pittances  when  spent,  Jasper!  You  should 
have  been  a  prince,  Jasper;  such  princely  tastes!  Trinkets 
and  dress,  horses  and  dice,  and  plenty  of  ladies  to  look  and 
die !  Such  princely  spirit  too !  bounding  all  return  for  loyal 
sacrifice  to  the  honour  you  vouchsafed  in  accepting  it !  " 

Uttering  this  embittered  irony,  which  nevertheless  seemed 
rather  to  please  than  to  offend  her  guest,  she  kept  moving 
about  the  room,  and  (whether  from  some  drawer  in  the  furni- 
ture, or  from  her  own  person,  Losely's  careless  eye  did  not 
observe)  she  suddenly  drew  forth  a  miniature,  and,  placing  it 
before  him,  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  but  you  are  altered  from  those 
days;  see  what  you  then  were!  " 

Losely's  gaze,  thus  abruptly  invited,  fixed  itself  on  the 
effigies  of  a  youth  eminently  handsome,  and  of  that  kind  of 
beauty  which,  without  being  effeminate,  approaches  to  the 
fineness  and  brilliancy  of  the  female  countenance, —  a  beauty 
which  renders  its  possessor  inconveniently  conspicuous,  and 
too  often,  by  winning  that  ready  admiration  which  it  costs  no 
effort  to  obtain,  withdraws  the  desire  of  applause  from  suc- 
cesses to  be  achieved  by  labour,  and  hardens  egotism  by  the 
excuses  it  lends  to  self-esteem.  It  is  true  that  this  handsome 
face  had  not  the  elevation  bestowed  by  thoughtful  expression  : 
but  thoughtful  expression  is  not  the  attribute  a  painter  seeks 
to  give  to  the  abstract  comeliness  of  early  youth;  and  it  is 
seldom  to  be  acquired  without  that  constitutional  wear  and 
tear  which  is  injurious  to  mere  physical  beauty.  And  over 
the  whole  countenance  was  diffused  a  sunny  light,  the  fresh- 
ness of  buxom  health,  of  luxuriant  vigour;  so  that  even  that 
arrogant  vanity  which  an  acute  observer  might  have  detected 
as  the  prevailing  mental  characteristic  seemed  but  a  glad  ex- 


228  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

ultation  in  the  gifts  of  benignant  Nature.  Not  there  the  look 
which,  in  the  matured  man  gazing  on  the  bright  ghost  of  his 
former  self,  might  have  daunted  the  timid  and  warned  the 
wise.  "  And  I  was  like  this !  True!  I  remember  well  when 
it  was  taken,  and  no  one  called  it  flattering,'-'  said  Mr.  Losely, 
with  pathetic  self-condolence.  "But  I  can't  be  very  much 
changed,"  he  added,  with  a  half  laugh.  "At  my  age  one  may 
bave  a  manlier  look,  yet  —  " 

"Yet  still  be  handsome,  Jasper,"  said  Mrs.  Crane.  "You 
are  so.  But  look  at  me ;  what  am  I  ?  " 

"Oh,  a  very  fine  woman,  my  dear  Crane, — always  were. 
But  you  neglect  yourself :  you  should  not  do  that ;  keep  it  up 
to  the  last.  Well,  but  to  return  to  the  child.  You  have 
disposed  of  her  without  my  consent,  without  letting  me 
know?  " 

"  Letting  you  know !  How  many  years  is  it  since  you  even 
gave  me  your  address!  Never  fear:  she  is  in  good  hands." 

"Whose?    At  all  events  I  must  see  her." 

"See  her!     What  for?" 

"  What  for !  Hang  it,  it  is  natural  that,  now  I  am  in  Eng- 
land, I  should  at  least  wish  to  know  what  she  is  like.  And  I 
think  it  very  strange  that  you  should  send  her  away,  and 
then  make  all  these  difficulties.  What 's  your  object?  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"My  object?  What  could  be  my  object  but  to  serve  you? 
At  your  request  I  took,  fed,  reared  a  child,  whom  you  could 
not  expect  me  to  love,  at  my  own  cost.  Did  I  ever  ask  you 
for  a  shilling?  Did  I  ever  suffer  you  to  give  me  one?  Never! 
At  last,  hearing  no  more  from  you,  and  what  little  I  heard  of 
you  making  me  think  that,  if  anything  happened  to  me  (and 
I  was  very  ill  at  the  time),  you  could  only  find  her  a  burden, 
—  at  last  I  say,  the  old  man  came  to  me, — you  had  given  him 
my  address, —  and  he  offered  to  take  her,  and  I  consented. 
She  is  with  him." 

"The  old  man!     She  is  with  him!    And  where  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know." 

M  Humph;  how  does  he  live?    Can  he  have  got  any  money?  " 

"I  don't  know." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  220 

"Did  any  old  friends  take  him  up?" 

"Would  he  go  to  old  friends?" 

Mr.  Losely  tossed  off  two  fresh  glasses  of  brandy,  one  after 
the  other,  and,  rising,  walked  to  and  fro  the  room,  his  hands 
buried  in  his  pockets,  and  in  no  comfortable  vein  of  reflection. 
At  length  he  paused  and  said,  "  Well,  upon  the  whole,  I  don't 
see  what  I  could  do  with  the  girl  just  at  present,  though,  of 
course,  I  ought  to  know  where  she  is,  and  with  whom.  Tell 
me,  Mrs.  Crane,  what  is  she  like, — pretty  or  plain?" 

"I  suppose  the  chit  would  be  called  pretty, —  by  some 
persons  at  least." 

"  Very  pretty?  handsome?"  asked  Losely,  abruptly. 

"Handsome  or  not,  what  does  it  signify?  what  good  comes 
of  beauty?  You  had  beauty  enough;  what  have  you  done 
with  it?  " 

At  that  question,  Losely  drew  himself  up  with  a  sudden 
loftiness  of  look  and  gesture,  which,  though  prompted  but 
by  offended  vanity,  improved  the  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance, and  restored  to  it  much  of  its  earlier  character. 
Mrs.  Crane  gazed  on  him,  startled  into  admiration,  and  it 
was  in  an  altered  voice,  half  reproachful,  half  bitter,  that 
she  continued, — 

"And  now  that  you  are  satisfied  about  her,  have  you  no 
questions  to  ask  about  me?  —  what  I  do?  how  I  live?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Crane,  I  know  that  you  are  comfortably  off, 
and  were  never  of  a  mercenary  temper.  I  trust  you  are 
happy,  and  so  forth:  I  wish  I  were;  things  don't  prosper 
with  me.  If  you  could  conveniently  lend  me  a  five-pound 
note  —  " 

"  You  would  borrow  of  me,  Jasper?  Ah !  you  come  to  me 
in  your  troubles.  You  shall  have  the  money, —  five  pounds, 
ten  pounds,  what  you  please,  but  you  will  call  again  for  it: 
you  need  me  now;  you  will  not  utterly  desert  me  now?" 

"  Best  of  creatures !  —  never !  "  He  seized  her  hand  and 
kissed  it.  She  withdrew  it  quickly  from  his  clasp,  and, 
glancing  over  him  from  head  to  foot,  said,  "But  are  you 
really  in  want?  —  you  are  well-dressed,  Jasper;  that  you 
always  were."  , 


230  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"Not  always;  three  days  ago  very  much  the  reverse:  but  I 
have  had  a  trifling  aid,  and  —  " 

"Aid  in  England?  from  whom?  where?  Not  from  him 
whom  you  say  you  had  the  courage  to  seek?" 

"From  whom  else?  Have  I  no  claim?  A  miserable  alms 
flung  to  me.  Curse  him!  I  tell  you  that  man's  look  and  lan- 
guage so  galled  me, —  so  galled,"  echoed  Losely,  shifting  his 
hold  from  the  top  of  his  switch  to  the  centre,  and  bringing 
the  murderous  weight  of  the  lead  down  on  the  palm  of  his 
other  hand,  "  that,  if  his  eye  had  quitted  mine  for  a  moment, 
I  think  I  must  have  brained  him,  and  been  —  " 

"Hanged!"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 

"Of  course,  hanged,"  returned  Losely,  resuming  the  reck- 
less voice  and  manner  in  which  there  was  that  peculiar  levity 
which  comes  from  hardness  of  heart,  as  from  the  steel's  hard- 
ness comes  the  blade's  play.  "But  if  a  man  did  not  some- 
times forget  consequences,  there  would  be  an  end  of  the 
gallows.  I  am.  glad  that  his  eye  never  left  mine."  And  the 
leaden  head  of  the  switch  fell  with  a  dull  dumb  sound  on  the 
floor. 

Mrs.  Crane  made  no  immediate  rejoinder,  but  fixed  on  her 
lawless  visitor  a  gaze  in  which  there  was  no  womanly  fear 
(though  Losely 's  aspect  and  gesture  might  have  sent  a  thrill 
through  the  nerves  of  many  a  hardy  man),  but  which  was  not 
without  womanly  compassion,  her  countenance  gradually  soft- 
ening more  and  more,  as  if  under  the  influence  of  recollections 
mournful  but  not  hostile.  At  length  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"Poor  Jasper!  Is  all  the  vain  ambition  that  made  you  so 
false  shrunk  into  a  ferocity  that  finds  you  so  powerless? 
Would  your  existence,  after  all,  have  been  harder,  poorer, 
meaner,  if  your  faith  had  been  kept  to  me?" 

Evidently  disliking  that  turn  in  the  conversation,  but  check- 
ing a  reply  which  might  have  been  rude  had  no  visions  of  five 
pounds,  ten  pounds,  loomed  in  the  distance,  Mr.  Losely  said, 
"  Pshaw !  Bella,  pshaw !  I  was  a  fool,  I  dare  say,  and  a  sad 
dog,  a  very  sad  dog;  but  I  had  always  the  greatest  regard  for 
you,  and  always  shall!  Hillo,  what 's  that?  A  knock  at  the 
door !  Oh,  by  the  by,  a  queer-looking  man,  in  a  white  hat, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  231 

called  at  the  same  time  I  did,  to  see  you  on  private  business, 
gave  way  to  me,  said  he  should  come  again;  may  I  ask  who 
he  is?" 

"  I  cannot  guess ;  no  one  ever  calls  here  on  business  except 
the  tax-gatherer." 

The  old  woman-servant  now  entered.  "A  gentleman, 
ma'am;  says  his  name  is  Rugge." 

"Rugge,  —  Rugge;  let  me  think." 

"I  am  here,  Mrs.  Crane,"  said  the  manager,  striding  in. 

"You  don't,  perhaps,  call  me  to  mind  by  name;  but  —  oho! 
not  gone,  sir!  Do  I  intrude  prematurely?" 

"No,  I  have  done;  good-day,  my  dear  Mrs.  Crane." 

"Stay,  Jasper.  I  remember  you  now,  Mr.  Rugge;  take  a 
chair." 

She  whispered  a  few  words  into  Losely's  ear,  then  turned 
to  the  manager,  and  said  aloud,  "  I  saw  you  at  Mr.  Waife's 
lodging,  at  the  time  he  had  that  bad  accident." 

"And  I  had  the  honour  to  accompany  you  home,  ma'am, 
and  —  but  shall  I  speak  out  before  this  gentleman?" 

"  Certainly ;  you  see  he  is  listening  to  you  with  attention. 
This  gentleman  and  I  have  no  secrets  from  each  other.  What 
has  become  of  that  person?  This  gentleman  wishes  to  know." 

LOSELY.  —  "Yes,  sir,  I  wish  to  know  —  particularly." 

RUGGE.  —  "  So  do  I;  that  is  partly  what  I  came  about.  You 
are  aware,  I  think,  ma'am,  that  I  engaged  him  and  Juliet 
Araminta,  that  is,  Sophy." 

LOSELY.  —  "Sophy?  engaged  them,  sir, — how?" 

RUGGE. — "Theatrical  line,  sir, —  Rugge's  Exhibition;  he 
was  a  great  actor  once,  that  fellow  Waife." 

LOSELY. — "Oh,  actor!  well,  sir,  goon." 

RUGGE  (who  in  the  course  of  his  address  turns  from  the 
lady  to  the  gentleman,  from  the  gentleman  to  the  lady,  with 
appropriate  gesture  and  appealing  look).  —  "  But  he  became  a 
wreck,  a  block  of  a  man ;  lost  an  eye  and  his  voice  too.  How- 
ever, to  serve  him,  I  took  his  grandchild  and  him  too.  He 
left  me  —  shamefully,  and  ran  off  with  his  grandchild,  sir. 
Now,  ma'am,  to  be  plain  with  you,  that  little  girl  I  looked 
upon  as  my  property, —  a  very  valuable  property.  She  is 


232  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

worth  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  I  have  been  done  out  of  her. 
If  you  can  help  me  to  get  her  back,  articled  and  engaged  say 
for  three  years,  I  am  willing  and  happy,  ma'am,  to  pay  some- 
thing handsome, — uncommon  handsome." 

MRS.  CRANE  (loftily). —  "Speak  to  that  gentleman}  he 
may  treat  with  you." 

LOSELY.  —  "  What  do  you  call  uncommon  handsome,  Mr.  — 
Mr.  Tugge?" 

RUGGE. —  "Rugge!  sir;  we  sha'n't  disagree,  I  hope,  pro- 
vided you  have  the  power  to  get  Waife  to  bind  the  girl  to 
me." 

LOSELY.  —  "I  may  have  the  power  to  transfer  the  young 
lady  to  your  care  —  young  lady  is  a  more  respectful  phrase 
than  girl  —  and  possibly  to  dispense  with  Mr.  Waife's  consent 
to  such  arrangement.  But  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I  must 
know  a  little  more  of  yourself,  before  I  could  promise  to 
exert  such  a  power  on  your  behalf." 

RUGGE.  —  "  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  improve  our  acquaint- 
ance. As  to  Waife,  the  old  vagabond,  he  has  injured  and 
affronted  me,  sir.  I  don't  bear  malice,  but  I  have  a  spirit : 
Britons  have  a  spirit,  sir.  And  you  will  remember,  ma'am, 
that  when  I  accompanied  you  home,  I  observed  that  Mr. 
Waife  was  a  mysterious  man,  and  had  apparently  known  bet- 
ter days,  and  that  when  a  man  is  mysterious,  and  falls  into 
the  sear,  and  yellow  leaf,  ma'am,  without  that  which  should 
accompany  old  age,  sir,  one  has  a  right  to  suspect  that  some 
time  or  other,  he  has  done  something  or  other,  ma'am,  which 
makes  him  fear  lest  the  very  stones  prats  of  his  whereabout, 
sir.  And  you  did  not  deny,  ma'am,  that  the  mystery  was 
suspicious ;'  but  you  said,  with  uncommon  good  sense,  that  it 
was  nothing  to  me  what  Mr.  Waife  had  once  been,  so  long  as 
he  was  of  use  to  me  at  that  particular  season.  Since  then, 
sir,  he  has  ceased  to  be  of  use, —  ceased,  too,  in  the  unhand- 
somest  manner.  And  if  you  would,  ma'am,  from  a  sense  of 
justice,  just  unravel  the  mystery,  put  me  in  possession  of  the 
secret,  it  might  make  that  base  man  of  use  to  me  again, — 
give  me  a  handle  over  him,  sir,  so  that  I  might  awe  him  into 
restoring  my  property,  as,  morally  speaking,  Juliet  Araminta 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  233 

most  undoubtedly  is.  That's  why  I  call, —  leaving  my  com- 
pany, to  which  I  am  a  father,  orphans  for  the  present.  But 
I  have  missed  that  little  girl, —  that  young  lady,  sir.  I  called 
her  a  phenomenon,  ma'am;  missed  her  much:  it  is  natural, 
sir,  I  appeal  to  you.  No  man  can  be  done  out  of  a  valuable 
property  and  not  feel  it,  if  he  has  a  heart  in  his  bosom.  And 
if  I  had  her  back  safe,  I  should  indulge  ambition.  I  have 
always  had  ambition.  The  theatre  at  York,  sir, — that  is  my 
ambition;  I  had  it  from  a  child,  sir;  dreamed  of  it  three 
times,  ma'am.  If  I  had  back  my  property  in  that  phenom- 
enon, I  would  go  at  the  thing,  slap-bang,  take  the  York,  and 
bring  out  the  phenomenon  with  a  daw!" 

LOSELY  (musingly). — "You  say  the  young  lady,  is  a  phe- 
nomenon, and  for  this  phenomenon  you  are  willing  to  pay 
something  handsome, —  a  vague  expression.  Put  it  into 

&  8.  d» 

RUGGE.  —  "  Sir,  if  she  can  be  bound  to  me  legally  for  three 
years,  I  would  give  £100.  I  did  offer  to  Waife  £50, —  to 
you,  sir,  £100." 

Losely's  eyes  flashed,  and  his  hands  opened  restlessly. 
"But,  confound  it,  where  is  she?  Have  you  no  clew?" 

RUGGE.  — "  No,  but  we  can  easily  find  one ;  it  was  not 
worth  my  while  to  hunt  them  up  before  I  was  quite  sure  that, 
if  I  regained  my  property  in  that  phenomenon,  the  law  would 
protect  it." 

MRS.  CRANE  (moving  to  the  door).  —  "Well,  Jasper  Losely, 
you  will  sell  the  young  lady,  I  doubt  not;  and  when  you  have 
sold  her,  let  me  know."  She  came  back  and  whispered, 
"  You  will  not  perhaps  now  want  money  from  me,  but  I  shall 
see  you  again ;  for,  if  you  would  find  the  child,  you  will  need 
my  aid." 

"Certainly,  my  dear  friend,  I  will  call  again;  honour 
bright." 

Mrs.  Crane  here  bowed  to  the  gentlemen,  and  swept  out  of 
the  room. 

Thus  left  alone,  Losely  and  Rugge  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  shy  and  yet  cunning  gaze, —  Rugge's  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets,  his  head  thrown  back;  Losely's  hands  invol- 


234  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

untarily  expanded,  his  head  bewitcliingly  bent  forward,  and  a 
little  on  one  side. 

"Sir,"  said  Rugge,  at  length,  "what  do  you  say  to  a  chop 
and  a  pint  of  wine?  Perhaps  we  could  talk  more  at  our  ease 
elsewhere.  I  am  only  in  town  for  a  day ;  left  my  company 
thirty  miles  off, — orphans,  as  I  said  before." 

"Mr.  Rugge,"  said  Losely,  "I  have  no  desire  to  stay  in 
London,  or  indeed  in  England;  and  the  sooner  we  can  settle 
this  matter  the  better.  Grant  that  we  find  the  young  lady, 
you  provide  for  her  board  and  lodging ;  teach  her  your  hon- 
ourable profession;  behave,  of  course,  kindly  to  her." 

"Like  a  father." 

"And  give  to  me  the  sum  of  £100?" 

"That  is,  if  you  can  legally  make  her  over  to  me.  But, 
sir,  may  I  inquire  by  what  authority  you  would  act  in  this 
matter?" 

"On  that  head  it  will  be  easy  to  satisfy  you;  meanwhile  I 
accept  your  proposal  of  an  early  dinner.  Let  us  adjourn;  is 
it  to  your  house?  " 

"  I  have  no  exact  private  house  in  London ;  but  I  know  a 
public  one, —  commodious." 

"Be  it  so.     After  you,  sir." 

As  they  descended  the  stairs,  the  old  woman-servant  stood 
at  the  street  door.  Rugge  went  out  first;  the  woman  detained 
Losely.  "  Do  you  find  her  altered?  " 

"Whom?  Mrs.  Crane?  —  why,  years  will  tell.  But  you 
seem  to  have  known  me;  I  don't  remember  you." 

"Not  Bridget  Greggs?" 

"Is  it  possible?  I  left  you  a  middle-aged,  rosy-faced 
woman.  True,  I  recognize  you  now.  There  's  a  crown  for 
you.  I  wish  I  had  more  to  spare ! " 

Bridget  pushed  back  the  silver. 

"  No ;  I  dare  not !  Take  money  from  you,  Jasper  Losely ! 
Mistress  would  not  forgive  me !  " 

Losely,  not  unreluctantly,  restored  the  crown  to  his  pocket; 
and,  with  a  snort  rather  than  sigh  of  relief,  stepped  into  open 
daylight.  As  he  crossed  the  street  to  join  Rugge,  who  was 
waiting  for  him  on  the  shady  side,  he  mechanically  turned  to 


235 

look  back  at  the  house,  and,  at  the  open  window  of  an  upper 
story,  he  beheld  again  those  shining  eyes  which  had  glared 
down  on  him  from  the  stairs.  He  tried  to  smile,  and  waved 
his  hand  feebly.  The  eyes  seemed  to  return  the  smile;  and 
as  he  walked  down  the  street,  arm-in-arm  with  the  ruffian 
manager,  slowly  recovering  his  springy  step,  and  in  the  gloss 
of  the  new  garments  that  set  forth  his  still  symmetrical  pro- 
portions, the  eyes  followed  him  watchfully,  steadfastly,  till 
his  form  had  vanished,  and  the  dull  street  was  once  more  a 
solitude. 

Then  Arabella  Crane  turned  from  the  window.  Putting 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  "  How  it  beats !  "  she  muttered ;  "  if  in 
love  or  in  hate,  in  scorn  or  in  pity,  beats  once  more  with  a 
human  emotion.  He  will  come  again;  whether  for  money  or 
for  woman's  wit,  what  care  I?f — he  will  come.  I  will  hold,  I 
will  cling  to  him,  no  more  to  part;  for  better  for  worse,  as  it 
should  have  been  once  at  the  altar.  And  the  child?"  she 
paused;  was  it  in  compunction?  "The  child!  "  she  continued 
fiercely,  and  as  if  lashing  herself  into  rage,  "  the  child  of  that 
treacherous,  hateful  mother, —  yes!  I  will  help  him  to  sell 
her  back  as  a  stage-show, —  help  him  in  all  that  does  not  lift 
her  to  a  state  from  which  she  may  look  down  with  disdain  on 
me.  Revenge  on  her,  on  that  cruel  house :  revenge  is  sweet. 
Oh !  that  it  were  revenge  alone  that  bids  me  cling  to  him  who 
deserves  revenge  the  most."  She  closed  her  burning  eyes, 
and  sat  down  droopingly,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  like  one 
in  pain. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

In  life  it  ia  difficult  to  say  who  do  yon  the  most  mischief  —  enemies  with  tho 
worst  intentions,  or  friends  with  the  best. 

THE?  conference  between  Mr.  Rugge  and  Mr.  Losely  termi- 
nated in  an  appointment  to  meet,  the  next  day,  at  the  village 
in  which  this  story  opened.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Rugge  would 
return  to  his  "  orphans, "  and  arrange  performances  in  which 


236  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

for  some  days  they  might  dispense  with  a  father's  part. 
Losely,  on  his  side,  undertook  to  devote  the  intervening  hours 
to  consultation  with  a  solicitor  to  whom  Mr.  Rugge  recom- 
mended him  as  to  the  prompt  obtaining  of  legal  powers  to  en- 
force the  authority  he  asserted  himself  to  possess.  He  would 
also  persuade  Mrs.  Crane  to  accompany  him  to  the  village 
and  aid  in  the  requisite  investigations;  entertaining  a  tacit 
but  instinctive  belief  in  the  superiority  of  her  acuteness. 
"Set  a  female  to  catch  a  female,"  quoth  Mr.  Rugge. 

On  the  day  and  in  the  place  thus  fixed  the  three  hunters 
opened  their  chase.  They  threw  off  at  the  Cobbler's  stall.  They 
soon  caught  the  same  scent  which  had  been  followed  by  the 
lawyer's  clerk.  They  arrived  at  Mrs.  Saunders's ;  there  the 
two  men  would  have  been  at  fault  like  their  predecessor.  But 
the  female  was  more  astute.  To  drop  the  metaphor  Mrs. 
Saunders  could  not  stand  the  sharp  cross-examination  of  one 
of  her  own  sex.  "That  woman  deceives  us,"  said  Mrs.  Crane 
on  leaving  the  house.  "They  have  not  gone  to  London. 
What  could  they  do  there?  Any  man  with  a  few  stage  jug- 
gling tricks  can  get  on  in  country  villages  but  would  be  lost 
in  cities.  Perhaps,  as  it  seems  he  has  got  a  dog,  —  we  have 
found  out  that  from  Mrs.  Saunders,  —  he  will  make  use  of  it 
for  an  itinerant  puppet-show." 

"Punch!  "  said  Mr.  Rugge;  "not  a  doubt  of  it." 

"In  that  case,"  observed  Mrs.  Crane,  "they  are  probably 
not  far  off.  Let  us  print  handbills,  offering  a  reward  for 
their  clew,  and  luring  the  old  man  himself  by  an  assurance 
that  the  inquiry  is  made  in  order  that  he  may  learn  of  some- 
thing to  his  advantage." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  handbills  were  printed. 
The  next  day  they  were  posted  up  on  the  walls,  not  only  of 
that  village,  but  on  those  of  the  small  towns  and  hamlets  for 
some  miles  round.  The  handbills  ran  invitingly  thus,  "If 
William  Waife,  who  left  -  -  on  the  20th  ult.,  will  apply  at 
the  Red  Lion  Inn  at ,  for  X.  X.,  he  will  learn  of*  some- 
thing greatly  to  his  advantage.  A  reward  of  £5  will  be 
given  to  any  one  who  will  furnish  information  where  the  said 
William  Waife  and  the  little  girl  who  accompanies  him  may 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  237 

be  found.  The  said  William  Waife  is  about  sixty  years  of 
age,  of  middle  stature,  strongly  built,  has  lost  one  eye,  and  is 
lame  of  one  leg.  The  little  girl,  called  Sophy,  is  twelve 
years  old,  but  looks  younger;  has  blue  eyes  and  light  brown 
hair.  They  had  with  them  a  white  French  poodle  dog.  This 
bill  is  printed  by  the  friends  of  the  missing  party."  The 
next  day  passed ;  no  information :  but  on  the  day  following,  a 
young  gentleman  of  good  mien,  dressed  in  black,  rode  into 
the  town,  stopped  at  the  Red  Lion  Inn,  and  asked  to  see  X. 
X.  The  two  men  were  out  on  their  researches;  Mrs.  Crane 
stayed  at  home  to  answer  inquiries. 

The  gentleman  was  requested  to  dismount,  and  walk  in. 
Mrs.  Crane  received  him  in  the  inn  parlour,  which  swarmed 
with  flies.  She  stood  in  the  centre, —  vigilant,  grim  spider 
of  the  place. 

"I  c-ca-call,"  said  the  gentleman,  stammering  fearfully, 
"  in  con-consequence  of  a  b-b-bill  —  I  —  ch-chanced  to  see  in 
my  ri-ri-ri-ride  yesterday  —  on  a  wa-wa-wall. —  You  —  you,  I 
—  sup-sup  —  " 

"Am  X.  X.,"  put  in  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  impatient,  "one 
of  the  friends  of  Mr.  Waife,  by  whom  the  handbill  has  been 
circulated;  it  will  indeed  be  a  great  relief  to  us  to  know 
where  they  are, — the  little  girl  more  especially." 

Mrs.  Crane  was  respectably  dressed, —  in  silk  iron-gray; 
she  had  crisped  her  flaky  tresses  into  stiff  hard  ringlets,  that 
fell  like  long  screws  from  under  a  black  velvet  band.  Mrs. 
Crane  never  wore  a  cap,  nor  could  you  fancy  her  in  a  cap; 
but  the  velvet  band  looked  as  rigid  as  if  gummed  to  a  hoop  of 
steel.  Her  manner  and  tone  of  voice  were  those  of  an  edu- 
cated person,  not  unused  to  some  society  above  the  vulgar; 
and  yet  the  visitor,  in  whom  the  reader  recognizes  the  pisca- 
torial Oxonian,  with  whom  Waife  had  interchanged  philoso: 
phy  on  the  marge  of  the  running  brooklet,  drew  back  as  she 
advanced  and  spoke ;  and,  bent  on  an  errand  of  kindness,  he 
was  seized  with  a  vague  misgiving. 

MRS.  CRANE  (blandly).  —  "I  fear  they  must  be  badly  off. 
I  hope  they  are  not  wanting  the  necessaries  of  life.  But  pray 
be  seated,  sir."  She  looked  at  him  again,  and  with  more 


238  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

respect  in  her  address  than  she  had  before  thrown  into  it, 
added,  with  a  half  courtesy,  as  she  seated  herself  by  his  side, 
"A  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church,  I  presume,  sir?" 

OXONIAN  (stammer,  as  on  a  former  occasion,  respectfully 
omitted). — "With  this  defect,  ma'am! — But  to  the  point. 
Some  days  ago  I  happened  to  fall  in  with  an  elderly  person, 
such  as  is  described,  with  a  very  pretty  female  child  and  a 
French  dog.  The  man  —  gentleman,  perhaps  I  may  call  him, 
judging  from  his  conversation  —  interested  me  much ;  so  did 
the  little  girl.  And  if  I  could  be  the  means  of  directing  real 
friends  anxious  to  serve  them  —  " 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "  You  would  indeed  be  a  benefactor.  And 
where  are  they  now,  sir?  " 

OXONIAN.  —  "That  I  cannot  positively  tell  you.  But  be- 
fore I  say  more,  will  you  kindly  satisfy  my  curiosity?  He  is 
perhaps  an  eccentric  person, — this  Mr.  Waife?  —  a  little  —  " 

The  Oxonian  stopped,  and  touched  his  forehead.  Mrs. 
Crane  made  no  prompt  reply :  she  was  musing.  Unwarily  the 
scholar  continued :  "  Because,  in  that  case,  I  should  not  like 
to  interfere." 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "  Quite  right,  sir.  His  own  friends  would 
not  interfere  with  his  roving  ways,  his  little  whims  on  any 
account.  Poor  man,  why  should  they?  He  has  no  property 
for  them  to  covet.  But  it  is  a  long  story.  I  had  the  care  of 
that  dear  little  girl  from  her  infancy,  sweet  child ! " 

OXONIAN.  —  "  So  she  seems." 

MRS.  CRANE.  — "  And  now  she  has  a  most  comfortable 
home  provided  for  her;  and  a  young  girl,  with  good  friends, 
ought  not  to  be  tramping  about  the  country,  whatever  an  old 
man  may  do.  You  must  allow  that,  sir?" 

OXONIAN.  — "Well, — yes,  I  allow  that;  it  occurred  to  me. 
But  what  is  the  man?1 — the  gentleman?" 

MRS.  CRANE.  — "Very  'eccentric,'  as  you  say,  and  inconsid- 
erate, perhaps,  as  to  the  little  girl.  We  will  not  call  it  in- 
sane, sir.  But  —  are  you  married?  " 

OXONIAN  (blushing). — "No,  ma'am." 

MRS.  CRANE.  — "But  you  have  a  sister,  perhaps?" 

OXONIAN.  — "Yes;  I  have  one  sister." 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  239 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "Would  you  like  your  sister  to  be  running 
about  the  country  in  that  way, —  carried  off  from  her  home, 
kindred,  and  friends?" 

OXONIAN.  —  "  Ah !  I  understand.  The  poor  little  girl  is 
fond  of  the  old  man, —  a  relation,  grandfather  perhaps?  and 
he  has  taken  her  from  her  home;  and  though  not  actually 
insane,  he  is  still  — " 

MRS.  CRANE. — "An  unsafe  guide  for  a  female  child,  deli- 
cately reared.  I  reared  her;  of  good  prospects,  too.  0  sir, 
let  us  save  the  child!  Look  — "  She  drew  from  a  side- 
pocket  in  her  stiff  iron-gray  apron  a  folded  paper ;  she  placed 
it  in  the  Oxonian's  hand ;  he  glanced  over  and  returned  it. 

"I  see,  ma'am.  I  cannot  hesitate  after  this.  It  is  a  good 
many  miles  off  where  I  met  the  persons  whom  I  have  no 
doubt  that  you  seek;  and  two  or  three  days  ago  my  father 
received  a  letter  from  a  very  worthy,  excellent  man,  with 
whom  he  is  often  brought  into  communication  upon  benevo- 
lent objects, —  a  Mr.  Hartopp,  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  in 
which,  among  other  matters,  the  Mayor  mentioned  briefly 
that  the  Literary  Institute  of  that  town  had  been  much  de- 
lighted by  the  performance  of  a  very  remarkable  man  with 
one  eye,  about  whom  there  seemed  some  mystery,  with  a  lit- 
tle girl  and  a  learned  dog;  and  I  can't  help  thinking  that  the 
man,  the  girl,  and  the  dog,  must  be  those  whom  I  saw  and 
you  seek." 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "At  Gatesboro'?  is  that  far?" 

OXONIAN.  —  "  Some  way ;  but  you  can  get  a  cross  train  from 
this  village.  I  hope  that  the  old  man  will  not  be  separated 
from  the  little  girl;  they  seemed  very  fond  of  each  other." 

MRS.  CRANE. — "No  doubt  of  it;  very  fond:  it  would  be 
cruel  to  separate  them.  A  comfortable  home  for  both.  I 
don't  know,  sir,  if  I  dare  offer  to  a  gentleman  of  your  evi- 
dent rank  the  reward, — but  for  the  poor  of  your  parish." 

OXONIAN.  —  "  Oh,  ma'am,  our  poor  want  for  nothing :  my 
father  is  rich.  But  if  you  would  oblige  me  by  a  line  after 
you  have  found  these  interesting  persons;  I  am  going  to  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  country  to-morrow, — to  Montfort  Court,  in 
shire." 


240  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "  To  Lord  Montfort,  the  head  of  the  noble 
family  of  Vipont?" 

OXONIAN.  — "Yes;  do  you  know  any  of  the  family,  ma'am? 
If  you  could  refer  me  to  one  of  them,  I  should  feel  more 
satisfied  as  to  —  " 

MRS.  CRANE  (hastily).  —  "Indeed,  sir,  every  one  must 
know  that  great  family  by  name  and  repute.  I  know  no 
more.  So  you  are  going  to  Lord  Montfort's!  The  Mar- 
chioness, they  say,  is  very  beautiful." 

OXONIAN.  —  "  And  good  as  beautiful.  I  have  the  honour  to 
be  connected  both  with  her  and  Lord  Montfort;  they  are 
cousins,  and  my  grandfather  was  a  Vipont.  I  should  have 
told  you  my  name, —  Morley;  George  Vipont  Morley." 

Mrs.  Crane  made  a  profound  courtesy,  and,  with  an  unmis- 
takable smile  of  satisfaction,  said,  as  if  half  in  soliloquy,  "  So 
it  is  to  one  of  that  noble  family  —  to  a  Vipont  —  that  the 
dear  child  will  owe  her  restoration  to  my  embrace!  Bless 
you,  sir ! " 

"  I  hope  I  have  done  right, "  said  George  Vipont  Morley,  as 
he  mounted  his  horse.  "  I  must  have  done  right,  surely ! " 
he  said  again,  when  he  was  on  the  high  road.  "  I  fear  I  have 
not  done  right,"  he  said  a  third  time,  as  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Crane  began  to  haunt  him;  and  when  at  sunset  he  reached 
his  home,  tired  out,  horse  and  man,  with  an  unusually  long 
ride,  and  the  green  water-bank  on  which  he  had  overheard 
poor  Waife's  simple  grace  and  joyous  babble  came  in  sight, 
"After  all,"  he  said  dolefully,  "it  was  no  business  of  mine. 
I  meant  well ;  but  —  "  His  little  sister  ran  to  the  gate  to  greet 
him.  "Yes,  I  did  quite  right.  How  should  I  like  my  sister 
to  be  roving  the  country,  and  acting  at  Literary  Institutes 
with  a  poodle  dog?  Quite  right;  kiss  me,  Jane!  " 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  241 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

LET  a  king  and  a  beggar  converse  freely  together,  and  it  is  the  beggar's  fault 
if  he  does  not  say  something  which  makes  the  king  lift  his  hat  to  him. 

THE  scene  shifts  back  to  Gatesboro',  the  forenoon  of  the 
day  succeeding  the  memorable  exhibition  at  the  Institute  of 
that  learned  town.  Mr.  Hartopp  was  in  the  little  parlour 
behind  his  country-house,  his  hours  of  business  much  broken 
into  by  those  intruders  who  deem  no  time  unseasonable  for 
the  indulgence  of  curiosity,  the  interchange  of  thought,  or 
the  interests  of  general  humanity  and  of  national  enlighten- 
ment. The  excitement  produced  on  the  previous  evening  by 
Mr.  Chapman,  Sophy,  and  Sir  Isaac  was  greatly  on  the  in- 
crease. Persons  who  had  seen  them  naturally  called  on  the 
Mayor  to  talk  over  the  exhibition.  Persons  who  had  not 
seen  them,  still  more  naturally  dropped  in  just  to  learn  what 
was  really  Mr.  Mayor's  private  opinion.  The  little  parlour 
was  thronged  by  a  regular  Iev6e.  There  was  the  proprietor 
of  a  dismal  building,  still  called  "The  Theatre,"  which  was 
seldom  let  except  at  election  time,  when  it  was  hired  by  the 
popular  candidate  for  the  delivery  of  those  harangues  upon 
liberty  and  conscience,  tyranny  and  oppression,  which  fur- 
nish the  staple  of  declamation  equally  to  the  dramatist  and 
the  orator.  There  was  also  the  landlord  of  the  Royal  Hotel, 
who  had  lately  built  to  his  house  "The  City  Concert-Room," 
—  a  superb  apartment,  but  a  losing  speculation.  There,  too, 
were  three  highly  respectable  persons,  of  a  serious  turn  of 
mind,  who  came  to  suggest  doubts  whether  an  entertainment 
of  so  frivolous  a  nature  was  not  injurious  to  the  morality  of 
Gatesboro'.  Besides  these  notables,  there  were  loungers  and 
gossips,  with  no  particular  object  except  that  of  ascertaining 
who  Mr.  Chapman  was  by  birth  and  parentage,  and  suggest- 
ing the  expediency  of  a  deputation,  ostensibly  for  the  pur- 
pose of  asking  him  to  repeat  his  performance,  but  charged 

VOL.  I.  — 16 


242  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

with  private  instructions  to  cross-examine  him  as  to  his  pedi- 
gree. The  gentle  Mayor  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  mighty 
ledger-book,  pen  in  hand.  The  attitude  was  a  rebuke  on  in- 
truders, and  in  ordinary  times  would  have  been  so  considered. 
But  mildness,  however  majestic,  is  not  always  effective  in  pe- 
riods of  civic  commotion.  The  room  was  animated  by  hub- 
bub. You  caught  broken  sentences  here  and  there  crossing 
each  other,  like  the  sounds  that  had  been  frozen  in  the  air, 
and  set  free  by  a  thaw,  according  to  the  veracious  narrative 
of  Baron  Munchausen. 

PLAYHOUSE  PROPRIETOR.  —  "  The  theatre  is  the  —  " 

SERIOUS  GENTLEMAN.  —  "Plausible  snare  by  which  a  popu- 
lation, at  present  grave  and  well-disposed,  is  decoyed  into 
becoming  —  " 

EXCITED  ADMIRER.  —  "A  French  poodle,  sir,  that  plays  at 
dominos  like  a  —  " 

CREDULOUS  CONJECTURER.  —  "  Benevolent  philanthropist, 
condescending  to  act  for  the  benefit  of  some  distressed  brother 
who  is  —  " 

PROPRIETOR  OF  CITY  CONCERT-KOOM.  —  "  One  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  long  by  forty,  Mr.  Mayor!  Talk  of  that  damp 
theatre,  sir,  you  might  as  well  talk  of  the  — " 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and  pushing  aside  a  clerk 
who  designed  to  announce  him,  in  burst  Mr.  Chapman  him- 
self. 

He  had  evidently  expected  to  find  the  Mayor  alone,  for  at 
the  sight  of  that  throng  he  checked  himself,  and  stood  mute 
at  the  threshold.  The  levte  for  a  moment  was  no  less  sur- 
prised, and  no  less  mute.  But  the  good  folks  soon  recovered 
themselves.  To  many  it  was  a  pleasure  to  accost  and  con- 
gratulate the  man  who  the  night  before  ,had  occasioned  to 
them  emotions  so  agreeable.  Cordial  smiles  broke  out; 
friendly  hands  were  thrust  forth.  Brief  but  hearty  compli- 
ments, mingled  with  entreaties  to  renew  the  performance  to  a 
larger  audience,  were  showered  round.  The  Comedian  stood 
hat  in  hand,  mechanically  passing  his  sleeve  over  its  nap, 
muttering  half  inaudibly,  "You  see  before  you  a  man,"  and 
turning  his  single  eye  from  one  face  to  the  other,  as  if  strug- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  243 

gling  to  guess  what  was  meant,  or  where  he  was.  The  Mayor 
rose  and  came  forward, —  "My  dear  friends,"  said  he,  mildly, 
"  Mr.  Chapman  calls  by  appointment.  Perhaps  he  may  have 
something  to  say  to  me  confidentially." 

The  three  serious  gentlemen,  who  had  hitherto  remained 
aloof,  eying  Mr.  Chapman  much  as  three  inquisitors  might 
have  eyed  a  Jew,  shook  three  solemn  heads,  and  set  the  ex- 
ample of  retreat.  The  last  to  linger  were  the  rival  proprie- 
tors of  the  theatre  and  the  city  concert-room.  Each  whispered 
the  stranger, —  one  the  left  ear,  one  the  right.  Each  thrust 
into  his  hand  a  printed  paper.  As  the  door  closed  on  them 
the  Comedian  let  fall  the  papers :  his  arm  drooped  to  his  side ; 
his  whole  frame  seemed  to  collapse.  Hartopp  took  him  by 
the  hand,  and  led  him  gently  to  his  own  armchair  beside  the 
table.  The  Comedian  dropped  on  the  chair,  still  without 
speaking. 

MR.  HARTOPP. — "What  is  the  matter?  What  has  hap- 
pened? " 

WAIFE.  — "  She  is  very  ill,  —  in  a  bad  way ;  the  doctor 
says  so, —  Dr.  Gill." 

MR.  HARTOPP  (feelingly).  —  "Your  little  girl  in  a  bad 
way !  Oh,  no ;  doctors  always  exaggerate  in  order  to  get  more 
credit  for  the  cure.  Not  that  I  would  disparage  Dr.  Gill, — 
fellow-townsman,  first-rate  man.  Still  'tis  the  way  with 
doctors  to  talk  cheerfully  if  one  is  in  danger,  and  to  look 
solemn  if  there  is  nothing  to  fear." 

WAIFE.  — "  Do  you  think  so :  you  have  children  of  your 
own,  sir?  —  of  her  age,  too?  —  Eh!  eh!" 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "Yes;  I  know  all  about  children, — bet- 
ter, I  think,  than  Mrs.  H.  does.  What  is  the  complaint?  " 

WAIFE.  —  "The  doctor  says  it  is  low  fever." 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "  Caused  by  nervous  excitement,  perhaps." 

WAIFE  (looking  up). — "Yes:  that's  what  he  says, —  ner- 
vous excitement." 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "  Clever  sensitive  children,  subjected  pre- 
cociously to  emulation  and  emotion,  are  always  liable  to  such 
maladies.  My  third  girl,  Anna  Maria,  fell,  into  a  low  fever, 
caused  by  nervous  excitement  in  trying  for  school  prizes." 


244  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

WAIFK.  —  "Did  she  die  of  it,  sir? " 

MR.  HABTOPP  (shuddering).  —  "Die!  no!  I  removed  her 
from  school,  set  her  to  take  care  of  the  poultry,  forbade  all 
French  exercises,  made  her  take  English  exercises  instead, 
and  ride  on  a  donkey.  She  's  quite  another  thing  now, — 
cheeks  as  red  as  an  apple,  and  as  firm  as  a  cricket-ball." 

WAIFE.  —  "I  will  keep  poultry ;  I  will  buy  a  donkey.  Oh, 
sir !  you  don't  think  she  will  go  to  heaven  yet,  and  leave  me 
here?" 

MB.  HARTOPP.  —  "  Not  if  you  give  her  rest  and  quiet.  But 
no  excitement,  no  exhibitions." 

WAIFE  (emptying  his  pockets  on  the  table). — "Will  you 
kindly  count  that  money,  sir?  Don't  you  think  that  would  be 
enough  to  find  her  some  pretty  lodgings  hereabouts  till  she 
gets  quite  strong  again?  With  green  fields, — she's  fond  of 
green  fields  and  a  farm-yard  with  poultry, —  though  we  were 
lodging  a  few  days  ago  with  a  good  woman  who  kept  hens, 
and  Sophy  did  not  seem  to  take  to  them  much.  A  canary 
bird  is  more  of  a  companion,  and  — " 

HARTOPP  (interrupting).  —  "Ay — ay  —  and  you!  what 
would  you  do?" 

WAIFE.  —  "  Why,  I  and  the  dog  would  go  away  for  a  little 
while  about  the  country." 

HARTOPP.  —  "Exhibiting?  " 

WAIFE.  — "  That  money  will  not  last  forever,  and  what 
can  we  do,  I  and  the  dog,  in  order  to  get  more  for  her?  " 

HARTOPP  (pressing  his  hand  warmly).  —  "You  are  a  good 
man,  sir.  I  am  sure  of  it;  you  cannot  have  done  things 
which  you  should  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  Make  me  your  con- 
fidant, and  I  may  then  find  some  employment  fit  for  you,  and 
you  need  not  separate  yourself  from  your  little  girl." 

WAIFE.  — "  Separate  from  her !  I  should  only  leave  her 
for  a  few  days  at  a  time  till  she  gets  well.  This  money  would 
keep  her, —  how  long?  Two  months?  three?  how  long?  — 
the  doctor  would  not  charge  much." 

HARTOPP.  —  "You  will  not  confide  in  me  then?  At  your 
age, — have  you  no  friends, — no  one  to  speak  a  good  word  for 
you?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  245 

WAIFE  (jerking  up  his  head  with  a  haughty  air).  — "So  — 
so!  Who  talks  to  you  about  me,  sir?  I  am  speaking  of  my 
innocent  child.  Does  she  want  a  good  word  spoken  for  her? 
Heaven  has  written  it  in  her  face." 

Hartopp  persisted  no  more;  the  excellent  man  was  sin- 
cerely grieved  at  his  visitor's  obstinate  avoidance  of  the  true 
question  at  issue;  for  the  Mayor  could  have  found  employ- 
ment for  a  man  of  Waife's  evident  education  and  talent.  But 
such  employment  would  entail  responsibilites  and  trust.  How 
recommend  to  it  a  man  of  whose  life  and  circumstances  noth- 
ing could  be  known, —  a  man  without  a  character?  And 
Waife  interested  him  deeply.  We  have  all  felt  that  there 
are  some  persons  towards  whom  we  are  attracted  by  a  peculiar 
sympathy  not  to  be  explained, — a  something  in  the  manner, 
the  cut  of  the  face,  the  tone  of  the  voice.  If  there  are  fifty 
applicants  for  a  benefit  in  our  gift,  one  of  the  fifty  wins  his 
way  to  our  preference  at  first  sight,  though  with  no  better 
right  to  it  than  his  fellows.  We  can  no  more  say  why  we 
like  the  man  than  we  can  say  why  we  fall  in  love  with  a 
woman  in  whom  no  one  else  would  discover  a  charm.  "  There 
is,"  says  a  Latin  love-poet,  "no  why  or  wherefore  in  liking." 
Hartopp,  therefore,  had  taken,  from  the  first  moment,  to 
Waife, — the  staid,  respectable,  thriving  man,  all  muffled  up 
from  head  to  foot  in  the  whitest  lawn  of  reputation, — to  the 
wandering,  shifty,  tricksome  scatterling,  who  had  not  seem- 
ingly secured,  through  the  course  of  a  life  bordering  upon 
age,  a  single  certificate  for  good  conduct.  On  his  hearth- 
stone, beside  his  ledger-book,  stood  the  Mayor,  looking  with 
a  respectful  admiration  that  puzzled  himself  upon  the  forlorn 
creature,  who  could  give  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be 
rather  in  the. Gate sboro'  parish  stocks  than  in  its  chief  mag- 
istrate's easy-chair.  Yet,  were  the  Mayor's  sympathetic 
liking  and  respectful  admiration  wholly  unaccountable?  Runs 
there  not  between  one  warm  human  heart  and  another  the 
electric  chain  of  a  secret  understanding?  In  that  maimed 
outcast,  so  stubbornly  hard  to  himself,  so  tremulously  sensi- 
tive for  his  sick  child,  was  there  not  the  majesty  to  which 
they  who  have  learned  that  Nature  has  her  nobles,  reverently 


246  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

bow  the  head!  A  man  true  to  man's  grave  religion  can  no 
more  despise  a  life  wrecked  in  all  else,  while  a  hallowing 
affection  stands  out  sublime  through  the  rents  and  chinks  of 
fortune,  than  he  can  profane  with  rude  mockery  a  temple  in 
ruins, —  if  still  left  there  the  altar. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

VERT  well  so  far  as  it  goes. 

MR.  HABTOPP.  —  "1  cannot  presume  to  question  you  fur- 
ther, Mr.  Chapman.  But  to  one  of  your  knowledge  of  the 
world,  I  need  not  say  that  your  silence  deprives  me  of  the 
power  to  assist  yourself.  We  '11  talk  no  more  of  that." 

WAIFE.  —  "Thank  you,  gratefully,  Mr.  Mayor." 

MR.  HARTOPP.  —  "  But  for  the  little  girl,  make  your  mind 
easy, — at  least  for  the  present.  I  will  place  her  at  my  farm 
cottage.  My  bailiff's  wife,  a  kind  woman,  will  take  care  of 
her,  while  you  pursue  your  calling  elsewhere.  As  for  this 
money,  you  will  want  it  yourself;  your  poor  little  child 
shall  cost  you  nothing.  So  that 's  settled.  Let  me  come  up 
and  see  her.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  doctor  myself.  Every  man 
blest  with  a  large  family,  in  whose  house  there  is  always 
some  interesting  case  of  small-pox,  measles,  whooping-cough, 
scarlatina,  etc.,  has  a  good  private  practice  of  his  own.  I  'm 
not  brilliant  in  book-learning,  Mr.  Chapman.  But  as  to 
children's  complaints  in  a  practical  way,"  added  Hartopp, 
with  a  glow  of  pride,  "Mrs.  H.  says  she'd  rather  trust  the 
little  ones  to  me  than  to  Dr.  Gill.  I  '11  see  your  child,  and 
set  her  up  I  '11  be  bound.  But  now  I  think  of  it,"  continued 
Hartopp,  softening  more  and  more,  "if  exhibit  you  must, 
why  not  stay  at  Gatesboro'  for  a  time?  More  may  be  made 
in  this  town  than  elsewhere." 

"No,  no;  I  could  not  have  the  heart  to  act  here  again  with- 
out her.  I  feel  at  present  as  if  I  can  never  again  act  at  all ! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  247 

Something  else  will  turn  up.  Providence  is  so  kind  to  me, 
Mr.  Mayor." 

Waife  turned  to  the  door.  "You  will  come  soon?"  he 
said  anxiously. 

The  Mayor,  who  had  been  locking  up  his  ledgers  and 
papers,  replied,  "I  will  but  stay  to  give  some  orders;  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  shall  be  at  your  hotel." 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

SOPHY  hides  heart  and  shows  temper. 

THE  child  was  lying  on  a  sofa  drawn  near  the  window  in 
her  own  room,  and  on  her  lap  was  the  doll  Lionel  had  given 
to  her.  Carried  with  her  in  her  wanderings,  she  had  never 
played  with  it ;  never  altered  a  ribbon  in  its  yellow  tresses ; 
but  at  least  once  a  day  she  had  taken  it  forth  and  looked  at  it 
in  secret.  And  all  that  morning,  left  much  to  herself,  it  had 
been  her  companion.  She  was  smoothing  down  its  frock, 
which  she  fancied  had  got  ruffled, —  smoothing  it  down  with 
a  sort  of  fearful  tenderness,  the  doll  all  the  while  staring  her 
full  in  the  face  with  its  blue  bead  eyes.  Waife,  seated  near 
her,  was  trying  to  talk  gayly;  to  invent  fairy  tales  blithe 
with  sport  and  fancy:  but  his  invention  flagged,  and  the 
fairies  prosed  awfully.  He  had  placed  the  dominos  before 
Sir  Isaac,  but  Sophy  had  scarcely  looked  at  them,  from  the 
languid  heavy  eyes  on  which  the  doll  so  stupidly,  fixed  its 
own.  Sir  Isaac  himself  seemed  spiritless;  he  was  aware 
that  something  was  wrong.  Now  and  then  he  got  up  rest- 
lessly, sniffed  the  dominos,  and  placed  a  paw  gently,  very 
gently,  on  Sophy's  knee.  Not  being  encouraged,  he  lay 
down  again  uneasily,  often  shifting  his  position  as  if  the 
floor  was  grown  too  hard  for  him.  Thus  the  Mayor  found 
the  three.  He  approached  Sophy  with  the  step  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  sick-rooms  and  ailing  children, —  step  light  as 
if  shod  with  felt, — put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  kissed  her 
forehead,  and  then  took  the  doll.  Sophy  started,  and  took  it 


248  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

back  from  him  quickly,  but  without  a  word ;  then  she  hid  it 
behind  her  pillow.  The  Mayor  smiled.  "  My  dear  child,  do 
you  think  I  should  hurt  your  doll?" 

Sophy  coloured  and  said  murmur ingly,  "No,  sir,  not  hurt 
it,  but  — "  she  stopped  short. 

"I  have  been  talking  to  your  grandpapa  about  you,  my 
dear,  and  we  both  wish  to  give  you  a  little  holiday.  Dolls 
are  well  enough  for  the  winter,  but  green  fields  and  daisy 
chains  for  the  summer." 

Sophy  glanced  from  the  Mayor  to  her  grandfather,  and  back 
again  to  the  Mayor,  shook  her  curls  from  her  eyes,  and  looked 
seriously  inquisitive. 

The  Mayor,  observing  her  quietly,  stole  her  hand  into  his 
own,  feeling  the  pulse  as  if  merely  caressing  the  slender 
wrist.  Then  he  began  to  describe  his  bailiff's  cottage,  with 
woodbine  round  the  porch,  the  farm-yard,  the  bee-hives,  the 
pretty  duck-pond  with  an  osier  island,  and  the  great  China 
gander  who  had  a  pompous  strut,  which  made  him  the  droll- 
est creature  possible.  And  Sophy  should  go  there  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  be  as  happy  as  one  of  the  bees,  but  not  so  busy. 

Sophy  listened  very  earnestly,  very  gravely,  and  then  slid- 
ing her  hand  from  the  Mayor,  caught  hold  of  her  grand- 
father's arm  firmly,  and  said,  "And  you,  Grandy, — will  you 
like  it?  won't  it  be  dull  for  you,  Grandy  dear?" 

"Why,  my  darling,"  said  Waife,  "I  and  Sir  Isaac  will  go 
and  take  a  stroll  about  the  country  for  a  few  weeks,  and  —  " 

SOPHY  (passionately).  —  "I  thought  so;  I  thought  he  meant 
that.  I  tried  not  to  believe  it;  go  away, —  you?  and  who's 
to  take  care  of  you?  who'll  understand  you?  I  want  care! 
I!  I!  No,  no,  it  is  you, —  you  who  want  care.  I  shall  be 
well  to-morrow, —  quite  well,  don't  fear.  He  shall  not  be 
sent  away  from  me;  he  shall  not,  sir.  Oh,  Grandfather, 
Grandfather,  how  could  you?"  She  flung  herself  on  his 
breast,  clinging  there, —  clinging  as  if  infancy  and  age  were 
but  parts  of  the  same  whole. 

"But,"  said  the  Mayor,  "it  is  not  as  if  you  were  going  to 
school,  my  dear;  you  are  going  for  a  holiday.  And  your 
grandfather  must  leave  you, —  must  travel  about;  'tis  his 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  249 

calling.  If  you  fell  ill  and  were  with  him,  think  how  much 
you  would  be  in  his  way.  Do  you  know,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"I  shall  begin  to  fear  that  you  are  selfish." 

"  Selfish ! "  exclaimed  Waif e,  angrily. 

"  Selfish ! "  echoed  Sophy,  with  a  melancholy  scorn  that 
came  from  a  sentiment  so  deep  that  mortal  eye  could  scarce 
fathom  it.  "  Oh,  no,  sir !  can  you  say  it  is  for  his  good,  not 
for  what  he  supposes  mine  that  you  want  us  to  part?  The 
pretty  cottage,  and  all  forme;  and  what  for  him?  —  tramp, 
tramp  along  the  hot  dusty  roads.  Do  you  see  that  he  is 
lame?  Oh,  sir,  I  know  him;  you  don't.  Selfish!  he  would 
have  no  merry  ways  that  make  you  laugh  without  me;  would 
you,  Grandy  dear?  Go  away,  you  are  a  naughty  man, —  go, 
or  I  shall  hate  you  as  much  as  that  dreadful  Mr.  Eugge." 

"Kugge, — who  is  he?"  said  the  Mayor,  curiously,  catch- 
ing at  any  clew. 

"Hush,  my  darling! — hush!"  said  Waife,  fondling 'her  on 
his  breast.  "Hush!  What  is  to  be  done,  sir? " 

Hartopp  made  a  sly  sign  to  him  to  say  no  more  before 
Sophy,  and  then  replied,  addressing  himself  to  her, — 

"  What  is  to  be  done?  Nothing  shall  be  done,  my  dear  child, 
that  you  dislike.  I  don't  wish  to  part  you  two.  Don't  hate 
me;  lie  down  again;  that's  a  dear.  There,  I  have  smoothed 
your  pillow  for  you.  Oh,  here  's  your  pretty  doll  again." 

Sophy  snatched  at  the  doll  petulantly,  and  made  what  the 
French  call  a  moue  at  the  good  man  as  she  suffered  her  grand- 
father to  replace  her  on  the  sofa. 

"She  has  a  strong  temper  of  her  own,"  muttered  the  Mayor; 
"  so  has  Anna  Maria  a  strong  temper  ! " 

Now,  if  I  were  anyway  master  of  my  own  pen,  and  could 
write  as  I  pleased,  without  being  hurried  along  helter-skelter 
by  the  tyrannical  exactions  of  that  "young  Rapid  "  in  buskins 
and  chiton  called  "THE  HISTORIC  MUSE,"  I  would  break  off 
this  chapter,  open  my  window,  rest  my  eyes  on  the  green 
lawn  without,  and  indulge  in  a  rhapsodical  digression  upon 
that  beautifier  of  the  moral  life  which  is  called  "Good 
Temper."  Ha!  the  Historic  Muse  is  dozing.  By  her  leave! 
—  Softly. 


250  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

SEIKO  an  essay  on  temper  in  general,  and  a  hazardous  experiment  on  the 
reader's  in  particular. 

THERE,  the  window  is  open!  how  instinctively  the  eye 
rests  upon  the  green !  How  the  calm  colour  lures  and  soothes 
it!  But  is  there  to  the  green  only  a  single  hue?  See  how 
infinite  the  variety  of  its  tints !  What  sombre  gravity  in  yon 
cedar,  yon  motionless  pine-tree !  What  lively  but  unvarying 
laugh  in  yon  glossy  laurels !  Do  those  tints  charm  us  like  the 
play  in  the  young  leaves  of  the  lilac, —  lighter  here,  darker 
there,  as  the  breeze  (and  so  slight  the  breeze !)  stirs  them  into 
checker, —  into  ripple?  Oh,  sweet  green,  to  the  world  what 
sweet  temper  is  to  man's  life !  Who  would  reduce  into  one 
dye  all  thy  lovely  varieties?  who  exclude  the  dark  steadfast 
verdure  that  lives  on  through  the  winter  day;  or  the  mutinous 
caprice  of  the  gentler,  younger  tint  that  came  fresh  through 
the  tears  of  April,  and  will  shadow  with  sportive  tremor  the 
blooms  of  luxuriant  June? 

Happy  the  man  on  whose  marriage-hearth  temper  smiles 
kind  from  the  eyes  of  woman!  "No  deity  present,"  saith 
the  heathen  proverb,  "  where  absent  Prudence ; "  no  joy 
long  a  guest  where  Peace  is  not  a  dweller, —  peace,  so  like 
Faith  that  they  may  be  taken  for  each  other,  and  poets  have 
clad  them  with  the  same  veil.  But  in  childhood,  in  early 
youth,  expect  not  the  changeless  green  of  the  cedar.  Wouldst 
thou  distinguish  fine  temper  from  spiritless  dulness,  from 
cold  simulation, —  ask  less  what  the  temper  than  what  the 
disposition. 

Is  the  nature  sweet  and  trustful ;  is  it  free  from  the  morbid 
self-love  which  calls  itself  "sensitive  feeling"  and  frets  at 
imaginary  offences ;  is  the  tendency  to  be  grateful  for  kind- 
ness, yet  take  kindness  meekly,  and  accept  as  a  benefit  what 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  251 

the  vain  call  a  due?  From  dispositions  thus  blessed,  sweet 
temper  will  come  forth  to  gladden  thee,  spontaneous  and  free. 

Quick  with  some,  with  some  slow,  word  ana  look  emerge 
out  of  the  heart.  Be  thy  first  question,  "  Is  the  heart  itself 
generous  and  tender?"  If  it  be  so,  self-control  comes  with 
deepening  affection.  Call  not  that  a  good  heart  which,  has- 
tening to  sting  if  a  fibre  be  ruffled,  cries,  "I  am  no  hypocrite." 
Accept  that  excuse,  and  revenge  becomes  virtue.  But  where 
the  heart,  if  it  give  the  offence,  pines  till  it  win  back  the 
pardon ;  if  offended  itself,  bounds  forth  to  forgive,  ever  long- 
ing to  soothe,  ever  grieved  if  it  wound ;  then  be  sure  that  its 
nobleness  will  need  but  few  trials  of  pain  in  each  outbreak 
to  refine  and  chastise  its  expression.  Fear  not  then;  be  but 
noble  thyself,  thou  art  safe ! 

Yet  what  in  childhood  is  often  called,  rebukingly,  "  temper  " 
is  but  the  cordial  and  puissant  vitality  which  contains  all  the 
elements  that  make  temper  the  sweetest  at  last.  Who  amongst 
us,  how  wise  soever,  can  construe  a  child's  heart?  who  con- 
jecture all  the  springs  that  secretly  vibrate  within,  to  a  touch 
on  the  surface  of  feeling?  Each  child,  but  especially  the  girl- 
child,  would  task  the  whole  lore  of  a  sage  deep  as  Shaks- 
peare  to  distinguish  those  subtle  emotions  which  we  grown 
folks  have  outlived. 

"She  has  a  strong  temper,"  said  the  Mayor,  when  Sophy 
snatched  the  doll  from  his  hand  a  second  time,  and  pouted  at 
him,  spoiled  child,  looking  so  divinely  cross,  so  petulantly 
pretty !  And  how  on  earth  could  the  Mayor  know  what  asso- 
ciations with  that  stupid  doll  made  her  think  it  profaned  by 
the  touch  of  a  stranger?  Was  it  to  her  eyes  as  to  his, —  mere 
waxwork  and  frippery ;  or  a  symbol  of  holy  remembrances,  of 
gleams  into  a  fairer  world,  of  "devotion  to  something  afar 
from  the  sphere  of  her  sorrow?"  Was  not  the  evidence  of 
"strong  temper"  the  very  sign  of  affectionate  depth  of  heart? 
Poor  little  Sophy!  Hide  it  again, —  safe  out  of  sight, — 
close,  inscrutable,  unguessed,  as  childhood's  first  treasures  of 
sentiment  ever  are  1 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  object  of  civilization  beiug  always  to  settle  people  one  way  or  the  other, 
the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  entertains  a  statesmanlike  ambition  to  settle 
Gentleman  Waife;  no  doubt  a  wise  conception,  and  in  accordance  with 
the  genius  of  the  Nation.  Every  session  of  Parliament  England  is  em- 
ployed in  settling  folks,  whether  at  home  or  at  the  Antipodes,  who  ig- 
norantly  object  to  be  settled  in  her  way ;  in  short,  "  I  '11  settle  them,"  has 
become  a  vulgar  idiom,  tantamount  to  a  threat  of  uttermost  extermination 
or  smash ;  therefore  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  harbouring  that  benignant 
idea  with  reference  to  "  Gentleman  Waife,"  all  kindly  readers  will  exclaim, 
"  Dii  meliora !  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  " 

THE  doll  once  more  safe  behind  the  pillow,  Sophy's  face 
gradually  softened;  she  bent  forward,  touched  the  Mayor's 
hand  timidly,  and  looked  at  him  with  pleading,  penitent  eyes, 
still  wet  with  tears, — eyes  that  said,  though  the  lips  were 
silent,  "I'll  not  hate  you.  I  wa»  ungrateful  and  peevish; 
may  I  beg  pardon?" 

"I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,"  cried  the  Mayor,  inter- 
preting the  look  aright.  "  And  now  try  and  compose  yourself 
and  sleep  while  I  talk  with  your  grandpapa  below." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  that  I  can  leave  her,"  said 
Waife,  when  the  two  men  had  adjourned  to  the  sitting-room. 

"lam  sure,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  seriously,  "that  it  is  the 
best  thing  for  her :  her  pulse  has  much  nervous  excitability; 
she  wants  a  complete  rest;  she  ought  not  to  move  about  with 
you  on  any  account.  But  come :  though  I  must  not  know,  it 
seems,  who  and  what  you  are,  Mr.  Chapman,  I  don't  think 
you  will  run  off  with  my  cow ;  and  if  you  like  to  stay  at  the 
bailiff's  cottage  for  a  week  or  two  with  your  grandchild,  you 
shall  be  left  in  peace,  and  asked  no  questions.  I  will  own  to 
you  a  weakness  of  mine :  I  value  myself  on  being  seldom  or 
never  taken  in.  I  don't  think  I  could  forgive  the  man  who 
did  take  me  in.  But  taken  in  I  certainly  shall  be,  if,  despite 
all  your  mystery,  you  are  not  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever  stood 
upon  shoe-leather!  So  come  to  the  cottage." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  253 

Waif e  was  very  much  affected  by  this  confiding  kindness ; 
but  he  shook  his  head  despondently,  and  that  same  abject, 
almost  cringing  humility  of  mien  and  manner  which  had 
pained  at  times  Lionel  and  Vance  crept  over  the  whole 
man,  so  that  he  seemed  to  cower  and  shrink  as  a  Pariah  be- 
fore a  Brahmin.  "No,  sir;  thank  you  most  humbly.  No, 
sir;  that  must  not  be.  I  must  work  for  my  daily  bread,  if 
what  a  poor  vagabond  like  me  may  do  can  be  called  work.  I 
have  made  it  a  rule  for  years  not  to  force  myself  to  the  hearth 
and  home  of  any  kind  man,  who,  not  knowing  my  past,  has  a 
right  to  suspect  me.  Where  I  lodge,  I  pay  as  a  lodger;  or 
whatever  favour  shown  me  spares  my  purse,  I  try  to  return  in 
some  useful  humble  way.  Why,  sir,  how  could  I  make  free 
and  easy  with  another  man's  board  and  roof -tree  for  days  or 
weeks  together,  when  I  would  not  even  come  to  your  hearth- 
stone for  a  cup  of  tea? "  The  Mayor  remembered,  and  was 
startled.  Waife  hurried  on.  "  But  for  my  poor  child  I  have 
no  such  scruples, —  no  shame,  no  false  pride.  I  take  what 
you  offer  her  gratefully, —  gratefully.  Ah,  sir,  she  is  not  in 
her  right  place  with  me ;  but  there  's  no  use  kicking  against 
the  pricks.  Where  was  I?  Oh!  well,  I  tell  you  what  we  will 
do,  sir.  I  will  take  her  to  the  cottage  in  a  day  or  two, — as 
soon  as  she  is  well  enough  to  go, —  and  spend  the  day  with 
her,  and  deceive  her,  sir!  yes,  deceive,  cheat  her,  sir!  I  am 
a  cheat,  a  player,  and  she  '11  think  I  'm  going  to  stay  with 
her;  and  at  night, when  she  's  asleep,  I  '11  creep  off,  I  and  the 
other  dog.  But  I  '11  leave  a  letter  for  her:  it  will  soothe  her, 
and  she  '11  be  patient  and  wait.  I  will  come  back  again  to 
see  her  in  a  week,  and  once  every  week,  till  she 's  well 
again." 

"And  what  will  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know;  but,"  said  the  actor,  forcing  a  laugh,  "I  'm 
not  a  man  likely  to  starve.  Oh,  never  fear,  sir." 

So  the  Mayor  went  away,  and  strolled  across  the  fields  to 
his  bailiff's  cottage,  to  prepare  for  the  guest  it  would  receive. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  that  the  poor  man  should  be  away  for 
some  days,"  thought  Mr.  Hartopp.  "Before  he  comes  again, 
I  shall  have  hit  on  some  plan  to  serve  him;  and  I  can  learn 


2'i4  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

more  about  him  from  the  child  in  his  absence,  and  see  what 
he  is  really  fit  for.  There 's  a  schoolmaster  wanted  in 
Morley's  village.  Old  Morley  wrote  to  me  to  recommend 
him  one.  Good  salary, —  pretty  house.  But  it  would  be 
wrong  to  set  over  young  children  —  recommend  to  a  respecta- 
ble proprietor  and  his  parson  —  a  man  whom  I  know  nothing 
about.  Impossible!  that  will  not  do.  If  there  was  any  place 
of  light  service  which  did  not  require  trust  or  responsibility, 
—  but  there  is  no  such  place  in  Great  Britain.  Suppose  I 
were  to  set  him  up  in  some  easy  way  of  business, —  a  little 
shop,  eh?  I  don't  know.  What  would  Williams  say?  If, 
indeed,  I  were  taken  in!  if  the  man  I  am  thus  credulously 
trusting  turned  out  a  rogue,"  —  the  Mayor  paused  and  act- 
ually shivered  at  that  thought, —  "why  then,  I  should  be 
fallen  indeed.  My  wife  would  not  let  me  have  half-a-crown 
in  my  pockets;  and  I  could,  not  walk  a  hundred  yards  but 
Williams  would  be  at  my  heels  to  protect  me  from  being 
stolen  by  gypsies.  Taken  in  by  him!  No,  impossible!  But 
if  it  turn  out  as  I  suspect, —  that,  contrary  to  vulgar  pru- 
dence, I  am  divining  a  really  great  and  good  man  in  difficul- 
ties, aha,  what  a  triumph  I  shall  then  gain  over  them  all! 
How  Williams  will  revere  me!"  The  good  man  laughed 
aloud  at  that  thought,  and  walked  on  with  a  prouder  step. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  PRETTY  trifle  in  its  way,  no  doubt,  is  the  love  between  yonth  and  yonth,  —  gay 
varieties  of  the  banble  spread  the  counter  of  the  great  toy-shop ;  but  thon, 
courteous  dame  Nature,  raise  thine  arm  to  yon  shelf,  somewhat  out  of 
every-day  reach,  and  bring  me  down  that  obsolete,  neglected,  unconsid- 
ered  thing,  the  love  between  age  and  childhood. 

THE  next  day  Sophy  was  better;  the  day  after,  improve- 
ment was  more  visible;  and  on  the  third  day  Waife  paid  his 
bill,  and  conducted  her  to  the  rural  abode  to  which,  credulous 
at  last  of  his  promises  to  share  it  with  her  for  a  time,  he  en- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  255 

ticed  her  fated  steps.  It  was  little  more  than  a  mile  beyond 
the  suburbs  of  the  town;  and,  though  the  walk  tired  her,  she 
concealed  fatigue,  and  would  not  suffer  him  to  carry  her.  The 
cottage  now  smiled  out  before  them, —  thatched  gable  roof, 
with  fancy  barge  board;  half  Swiss,  half  what  is  called 
Elizabethan;  all  the  fences  and  sheds  round  it,  as  only  your 
rich  traders,  condescending  to  turn  farmers,  construct  and 
maintain, —  sheds  and  fences,  trim  and  neat,  as  if  models  in 
waxwork.  The  breezy  air  came  fresh  from  the  new  haystacks ; 
from  the  woodbine  round  the  porch;  from  the  breath  of  the 
lazy  kine,  as  they  stood  knee-deep  in  the  pool,  that,  belted 
with  weeds  and  broad-leaved  water-lilies,  lay  calm  and  gleam- 
ing amidst  level  pastures. 

Involuntarily  they  arrested  their  steps,  to  gaze  on  the 
cheerful  landscape  and  inhale  the  balmy  air.  Meanwhile  the 
Mayor  came  out  from  the  cottage  porch,  his  wife  leaning  on 
his  arm,  and  two  of  his  younger  children  bounding  on  before, 
with  joyous  faces,  giving  chase  to  a  gaudy  butterfly  which 
they  had  started  from  the  woodbine. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  had  conceived  a  lively  curiosity  to  see  and 
judge  for  herself  of  the  objects  of  her  liege  lord's  benevolent 
interest.  She  shared,  of  course,  the  anxiety  which  formed 
the  standing  excitement  of  all  those  who  lived  but  for  one 
godlike  purpose,  that  of  preserving  Josiah  Hartopp  from 
being  taken  in.  But  whenever  the  Mayor  specially  wished 
to  secure  his  wife's  countenance  to  any  pet  project  of  his 
own,  and  convince  her  either  that  he  was  not  taken  in,  or 
that  to  be  discreetly  taken  in  is  in  this  world  a  very  popular 
and  sure  mbde  of  getting  up,  he  never  failed  to  attain  his 
end.  That  man  was  the  cunningest  creature!  As  full  of 
wiles  and  stratagems  in  order  to  get  his  own  way  —  in  benev- 
olent objects  —  as  men  who  set  up  to  be  clever  are  for  selfish 
ones.  Mrs.  Hartopp  was  certainly  a  good  woman,  but  a  made 
good  woman.  Married  to  another  man,  I  suspect  that  she 
would  have  been  a  shrew.  Petruchio  would  never  have 
tamed  her,  I  '11  swear.  But  she,  poor  lady,  had  been  grad- 
ually, but  completely,  subdued,  subjugated,  absolutely  cowed 
beneath  the  weight  of  her  spouse's  despotic  mildness;  for  in 


250  WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Hartopp  there  was  a  weight  of  soft  quietude,  of  placid  op- 
pression, wholly  irresistible.  It  would  have  buried  a  Titan- 
ess  under  a  Pelion  of  moral  feather-beds.  Mass  upon  mass 
of  downy  influence  descended  upon  you,  seemingly  yielding 
as  it  fell,  enveloping,  overbearing,  stifling  you;  not  present- 
ing a  single  hard  point  of  contact;  giving  in  as  you  pushed 
against  it;  supplying  itself  seductively  round  you,  softer  and 
softer,  heavier  and  heavier, — till,  I  assure  you,  ma'am,  no 
matter  how  high  your  natural  wifely  spirit,  you  would  have 
had  it  smothered  out  of  you,  your  last  rebellious  murmur 
dying  languidly  away  under  the  descending  fleeces. 

"So  kind  in  you  to  come  with  me,  Mary,"  said  Hartopp. 
"  I  could  not  have  been  happy  without  your  approval :  look  at 
the  child;  something  about  her  like  Mary  Anne,  and  Mary 
Anne  is  the  picture  of  you ! " 

Waife  advanced,  uncovering;  the  two  children,  having  lost 
trace  of  the  butterfly,  had  run  up  towards  Sophy.  But  her 
shy  look  made  themselves  shy, —  shyness  is  so  contagious, — 
and  they  stood  a  little  aloof,  ga/ing  at  her.  Sir  Isaac  stalked 
direct  to  the  Mayor,  sniffed  at  him,  and  wagged  his  tail. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  now  bent  over  Sophy,  and  acknowledging 
that  the  face  was  singularly  pretty,  glanced  graciously  to- 
wards the  husband,  and  said,  "  I  see  the  likeness ! "  then  to 
Sophy,  "I  fear  you  are  tired,  my  dear:  you  must  not  over- 
fatigue  yourself;  and  you  must  take  milk  fresh  from  the  cow 
every  morning."  And  now  the  bailiff's  wife  came  briskly 
out,  a  tidy,  fresh-coloured,  kind-faced  woman,  fond  of  chil- 
dren; the  more  so  because  she  had  none  of  her  own. 

So  they  entered  the  farm-yard,  Mrs.  Hartopp  being  the 
chief  talker ;  and  she,  having  pointed  out  to  Sophy  the  cows 
and  the  turkeys,  the  hen-coops,  and  the  great  China  gander, 
led  her  by  the  one  hand  —  while  Sophy's  other  hand  clung 
firmly  to  Waife's  —  across  the  little  garden,  with  its  patent 
bee-hives,  into  the  house,  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  kissed 
her.  "Very  like  Mary  Anne!  —  Mary  Anne,  dear."  One  of 
the  two  children  owning  that  name  approached, —  snub-nosed, 
black-eyed,  with  cheeks  like  peonies.  "  This  little  girl,  my 
Mary  Anne,  was  as  pale  as  you, —  over-study;  and  now,  my 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  257 

dear  child,  you  must  try  and  steal  a  little  of  her  colour.  Don't 
you  think  my  Mary  Anne  is  like  her  papa,  Mr.  Chapman?" 

"Like  me!"  exclaimed  the  Mayor,  whispering  Waife, — 
"  image  of  her  mother !  the  same  intellectual  look ! " 

Said  the  artful  actor,  "  Indeed,  ma'am,  the  young  lady  has 
her  father's  mouth  and  eyebrows,  but  that  acute,  sensible  ex- 
pression is  yours, —  quite  yours.  Sir  Isaac,  make  a  bow  to 
the  young  lady,  and  then,  sir,  go  through  the  sword  exercise!  " 

The  dog,  put  upon  his  tricks,  delighted  the  children;  and 
the  poor  actor,  though  his  heart  lay  in  his  breast  like  lead, 
did  his  best  to  repay  benevolence  by  mirth.  Finally,  much 
pleased,  Mrs.  Hartopp  took  her  husband's  arm  to  depart. 
The  children,  on  being  separated  from  Sir  Isaac,  began  to  cry. 
The  Mayor  interrupted  his  wife, — who,  if  left  to  herself, 
would  have  scolded  them  into  worse  crying, — told  Mary 
Anne  that  he  relied  on  her  strong  intellect  to  console  her 
brother  Tom ;  observed  to  Tom  that  it  was  not  like  his  manly 
nature  to  set  an  example  of  weeping  to  his  sister;  and  con- 
trived thus  to  flatter  their  tears  away  in  a  trice,  and  sent 
them  forward  in  a  race  to  the  turnstile. 

Waife  and  Sophy  were  alone  in  the  cottage  parlour,  Mrs. 
Gooch,  the  bailiff's  wife,  walking  part  of  the  way  back  with 
the  good  couple,  in  order  to  show  the  Mayor  a  heifer  who  had 
lost  appetite  and  taken  to  moping.  "  Let  us  steal  out  into  the 
back  garden,  my  darling,"  said  Waife.  "I  see  an  arbour 
there,  where  I  will  compose  myself  with  a  pipe, — a  liberty  I 
should  not  like  to  take  indoors."  They  stepped  across  the 
threshold,  and  gained  the  arbour,  which  stood  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  small  kitchen-garden,  and  commanded  a  pleasant 
view  of  pastures  and  cornfields,  backed  by  the  blue  outline  of 
distant  hills.  Afar  were  faintly  heard  the  laugh  of  the 
Mayor's  happy  children,  now  and  then  a  tinkling  sheep-bell, 
or  the  tap  of  the  woodpecker,  unrepressed  by  the  hush  of  the 
midmost  summer,  which  stills  the  more  tuneful  choristers 
amidst  their  coverts.  Waife  lighted  his  pipe,  and  smoked 
silently;  Sophy,  resting  her  head  on  his  bosom,  silent  also. 
She  was  exqxiisitely  sensitive  to  nature :  the  quiet  beauty  of 
all  round  her  was  soothing  a  spirit  lately  troubled,  and  health 

VOL.    I.  —  17 


258  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

came  stealing  gently  back  through  frame  and  through  heart. 
At  length  she  said  softly,  "We  could  be  so  happy  here, 
Grandfather!  It  cannot  last,  can  it?" 

"'Tis  no  use  in  this  life,  my  dear,"  returned  Waife,  philo- 
sophizing, "no  use  at  all  disturbing  present  happiness  by 
asking,  'Can  it  last?'  To-day  is  man's,  to-morrow  his 
Maker's.  But  tell  me  frankly,  do  you  really  dislike  so  much 
the  idea  of  exhibiting?  I  don't  mean  as  we  did  in  Mr. 
llugge's  show.  I  know  you  hate  that;  but  in  a  genteel  pri- 
vate way,  as  the  other  night.  You  sigh!  Out  with  it." 

"I  like  what  you  like,  Grandy." 

"That 's  not  true.  I  like  to  smoke;  you  don't.  Come,  you 
do  dislike  acting?  Why?  you  do  it  so  well, —  wonderfully. 
Generally  speaking,  people  like  what  they  do  well." 

"It  is  not  the  acting  itself,  Grandy  dear,  that  I  don't  like. 
When  I  am  in  some  part,  I  am  carried  away;  I  am  not  my- 
self. I  am  some  one  else!  " 

"And  the  applause?" 

"  I  don't  feel  it.  I  dare  say  I  should  miss  it  if  it  did  not 
come;  but  it  does  not  seem  to  mo  as  if  /were  applauded.  If 
I  felt  that,  I  should  stop  short,  and  get  frightened.  It  is  as 
if  that  somebody  else  into  whom  I  was  changed  was  making 
friends  with  the  audience;  and  all  my  feeling  is  for  that 
somebody, — just  as,  Grandy  dear,  when  it  is  over,  and  we 
two  are  alone  together,  all  my  feeling  is  for  you, —  at  least 
(hanging  her  head)  it  used  to  be;  but  lately,  somehow,  I  am 
ashamed  to  think  how  I  have  been  feeling  for  myself  more 
than  for  you.  Is  it  —  is  it  that  I  am  growing  selfish?  as  Mr. 
Mayor  said.  Oh,  no!  Now  we  are  here, — not  in  those  noisy 
towns, —  not  in  the  inns  and  on  the  highways;  now  here,  here, 
I  do  feel  again  for  you, — all  for  you!  " 

"You  are  my  little  angel,  you  are,"  said  Waife,  tremu- 
lously. "Selfish!  you!  a  good  joke  that!  Now  you  see,  I  am 
not  what  is  called  Demonstrative, — a  long  word,  Sophy, 
which  means,  that  I  don't  show  to  you  always  how  fond  I  ahi 
of  you;  and,  indeed,"  he  added  ingenuously,  "I  am  not  al- 
ways aware  of  it  myself.  I  like  acting, —  I  like  the  ap- 
plause, and  the  lights,  and  the  excitement,  and  the  illusion, 


259 

—  the  make-belief  of  the  whole  thing:  it  takes  me  out  of 
memory  and  thought;  it  is  a  world  that  has  neither  past, 
present,  nor  future,  an  interlude  in  time, —  an  escape  from 
space.  I  suppose  it  is  the  same  with  poets  when  they  are 
making  verses.  Yes,  I  like  all  this;  and,  when  I  think  of  it, 
I  forget  you  too  much.  And  I  never  observed,  Heaven  for- 
give me !  that  you  were  pale  and  drooping  till  it  was  pointed 
out  to  me.  Well,  take  away  your  arms.  Let  us  consult! 
As  soon  as  you  get  quite,  quite  well,  how  shall  we  live? 
what  shall  we  do?  You  are  as  wise  as  a  little  woman,  and 
such  a  careful,  prudent  housekeeper;  and  I  'm  such  a  harum- 
scarum  old  fellow,  without  a  sound  idea  in  my  head.  What 
shall  we  do  if  we  give  up  acting  altogether?  " 

"Give  up  acting  altogether,  when  you  like  it  so!  No,  no. 
I  will  like  it  too,  Grandy.  But  —  but  —  "  she  stopped  short, 
afraid  to  imply  blame  or  to  give  pain. 

"But  what?  let  us  make  clean  breasts,  one  to  the  other; 
tell  truth,  and  shame  the  Father  of  Lies." 

"Tell  truth,"  said  Sophy,  lifting  up  to  him  her  pure  eyes 
with  such  heavenly,  loving  kindness  that,  if  the  words  did 
imply  reproof,  the  eyes  stole  it  away.  "  Could  we  but  man- 
age to  tell  truth  off  the  stage,  I  should  not  dislike  acting! 
Oh,  Grandfather,  when  that  kind  gentleman  and  his  lady  and 
those  merry  children  come  up  and  speak  to  us,  don't  you  fee* 
ready  to  creep  into  the  earth?  —  I  do.  Are  we  telling  truth? 
are  we  living  truth?  one  name  to-day,  another  name  to- 
morrow? I  should  not  mind  acting  on  a  stage  or  in  a  room, 
for  the  time,  but  always  acting,  always, —  we  ourselves  'make- 
beliefs!'  Grandfather,  must  that  be?  They  don't  do  it;  I* 
mean  by  they,  all  who  are  good  and  looked  up  to  and  re- 
spected, as  —  as  —  oh,  Grandy!  Grandy!  what  am  I  saying? 
I  have  pained  you." 

Waife  indeed  was  striving  hard  to  keep  down  emotion ;  but 
his  lips  were  set  firmly  and  the  blood  had  left  them,  and  his 
hands  were  trembling. 

"We  must  hide  ourselves,"  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice; 
"we  must  take  false  names;  I  —  because  —  because  of  reasons 
I  can't  tell  even  to  you;  and  you,  because  I  failed  to  get  you  a 


260 

proper  home,  where  you  ought  to  be ;  and  there  is  one  who, 
if  he  pleases,  and  he  may  please  it  any  day,  could  take  you 
away  from  me,  if  he  found  you  out ;  and  so  —  and  so  —  "  He 
paused  abruptly,  looked  at  her  fearful  wondering  soft  face, 
and,  rising,  drew  himself  up  with  one  of  those  rare  outbreaks 
of  dignity  which  elevated  the  whole  character  of  his  person. 
"But  as  for  me,"  said  he,  "if  I  have  lost  all  name;  if,  while 
I  live,  I  must  be  this  wandering,  skulking  outcast,  —  look 
above,  Sophy,  —  look  up  above :  there  all  secrets  will  be  known, 
all  hearts  read;  and  there  my  best  hope  to  find  a  place  in 
which  I  may  wait  your  coming  is  in  what  has  lost  me  all 
birthright  here.  Not  to  exalt  myself  do  I  say  this, — no;  but 
that  you  may  have  comfort,  darling,  if  ever  hereafter  you  are 
pained  by  what  men  say  to  you  of  me." 

As  he  spoke,  the  expression  of  his  face,  at  first  solemn  and 
lofty,  relaxed  into  melancholy  submission.  Then  passing  his 
arm  into  hers,  and  leaning  on  it  as  if  sunk  once  more  into  the 
broken  cripple  needing  her  frail  support,  he  drew  her  forth 
from  the  arbour,  and  paced  the  little  garden  slowly,  painfully. 
At  length  he  seemed  to  recover  himself,  and  said  in  his  ordi- 
nary cheerful  tone,  "  But  to  the  point  in  question,  suppose  we 
have  done  with  acting  and  roaming,  and  keep  to  one  name  and 
settle  somewhere  like  plain  folks,  again  I  ask,  How  shall  we 
live?" 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  that,"  answered  Sophy.  "You 
remember  that  those  good  Miss  Burtons  taught  me  all  kinds 
of  needlework,  and  I  know  people  can  make  money  by  needle- 
work. And  then,  Grandy  dear,  what  can't  you  do?  Do  you 
forget  Mrs.  Saunders's  books  that  you  bound,  and  her  cups 
and  saucers  that  you  mended?  So  we  would  both  work,  and 
have  a  little  cottage  and  a  garden,  that  we  could  take  care 
of,  and  sell  the  herbs  and  vegetables.  Oh,  I  have  thought 
over  it  all,  the  last  fortnight,  a  hundred  hundred  times,  only 
I  did  not  dare  to  speak  first." 

Waife  listened  very  attentively.  "I  can  make  very  good 
baskets,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  chin,  "famous  baskets  (if  one 
could  hire  a  bit  of  osier  ground),  and,  as  you  say,  there  might 
be  other  fancy  articles  I  could  turn  out  prettily  enough,  and 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  261 

you  could  work  samplers,  and  urn-rugs,  and  doileys,  and  pin- 
cushions, and  so  forth ;  and  what  with  a  rood  or  two  of  garden 
ground,  and  poultry  (the  Mayor  says  poultry  is  healthy  for 
children),  upon  my  word,  if  we  could  find  a  safe  place,  and 
people  would  not  trouble  us  with  their  gossip,  and  we  could 
save  a  little  money  for  you  when  I  am  — " 

"Bees  too, — honey?"  interrupted  Sophy,  growing  more  and 
more  interested  and  excited. 

"Yes,  bees, —  certainly.  A  cottage  of  that  kind  in  a  vil- 
lage would  not  be  above  £6  a  year,  and  £20  spent  on  mate- 
rials for  fancy-works  would  set  us  up.  Ah!  but  furniture, — 
beds  and  tables, —  monstrous  dear!" 

"Oh,  no!  very  little  would  do  at  first." 

"  Let  us  count  the  money  we  have  left, "  said  Waif e,  throw- 
ing himself  down  on  a  piece  of  sward  that  encircled  a  shady 
mulberry-tree.  Old  man  and  child  counted  the  money,  bit 
by  bit,  gayly  yet  anxiously, —  babbling,  interrupting  each 
other, —  scheme  upon  scheme:  they  forgot  past  and  present 
as  much  as  in  acting  plays;  they  were  absorbed  in  the 
future, — innocent  simple  future, —  innocent  as  the  future 
planned  by  two  infants  fresh  from  "Robinson  Crusoe"  or 
fairy  tales. 

"I  remember,  I  remember,  just  the  place  for  us,"  cried 
"Waife,  suddenly.  "It  is  many,  many,  many  years  since  I 
was  there;  I  was  courting  my  Lizzy  at  the  time, — alas!  alas! 
But  no  sad  thoughts  now ! —  just  thfc  place,  near  a  large  town, 
but  in  a  pretty  village  quite  retired  from  it.  ;T  was  there  1 
learned  to  make  baskets.  I  had  broken  my  leg;  fall  from  a 
horse;  nothing  to  do.  I  lodged  with  an  old  basketmaker; 
he  had  a  capital  trade.  Rivulet  at  the  back  of  his  house; 
reeds,  osiers,  plentiful.  I  see  them  now,  as  I  saw  them  from 
my  little  casement  while  my  leg  was  setting.  And  Lizzy  used 
to  write  to  me  such  dear  letters ;  my  baskets  were  all  for  her. 
We  had  baskets  enough  to  have  furnished  a  house  with  bas- 
kets; could  have  dined  in  baskets,  sat  in  baskets,  slept  in 
baskets.  With  a  few  lessons  I  could  soon  recover  the  knack 
of  the  work.  I  should  like  to  see  the  place  again;  it  would 
be  shaking  hands  with  my  youth  once  more.  None  who  could 


262  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

possibly  recognize  me  could  be  now  living.  Saw  no  one 
but  the  surgeon,  the  basketmaker,  and  his  wife;  all  so  old 
they  must  be  long  since  gathered  to  their  fathers.  Perhaps 
no  one  carries  on  the  basket  trade  now.  I  may  revive  it 
and  have  it  all  to  myself;  perhaps  the  cottage  itself  may 
be  easily  hired."  Thus,  ever  disposed  to  be  sanguine,  the 
vagabond  chattered  on,  Sophy  listening  fondly,  and  smil- 
ing up  in  his  face.  "And  a  fine  large  park  close  by:  the 
owners,  great  lords,  deserted  it  then;  perhaps  it  is  deserted 
still.  You  might  wander  over  it  as  if  it  were  your  own, 
Sophy.  Such  wonderful  trees, —  such  green  solitudes;  and 
pretty  shy  hares  running  across  the  vistas, —  stately  deer  too! 
We  will  make  friends  with  the  lodge-keepers,  and  we  will 
call  the  park  yours,  Sophy;  and  I  shall  be  a  genius  who 
weaves  magical  baskets,  and  you  shall  be  the  enchanted  prin- 
cess concealed  from  all  evil  eyes,  knitting  doileys  of  pearl 
under  leaves  of  emerald,  and  catching  no  sound  from  the 
world  of  perishable  life,  except  as  the  boughs  whisper  and 
the  birds  sing." 

"  Dear  me,  here  you  are ;  we  thought  you  were  lost, "  said 
the  bailiff's  wife ;  "  tea  is  waiting  for  you,  and  there  's  hus- 
band, sir,  coming  up  from  his  work ;  he  '11  be  proud  and  glad 
to  know  you,  sir,  and  you  too,  my  dear;  we  have  no  children 
of  our  own." 

It  is  past  eleven.  Sophy,  worn  out,  but  with  emotions  far 
more  pleasurable  than  she  has  long  known,  is  fast  asleep. 
Waife  kneels  by  her  side,  looking  at  her.  He  touches  her 
hand,  so  cool  and  soft;  all  fever  gone:  he  rises  on  tiptoe;  he 
bends  over  her  forehead, — a  kiss  there,  and  a  tear;  he  steals 
away,  down,  down  the  stairs.  At  the  porch  is  the  bailiff 
holding  Sir  Isaac. 

"  We  '11  take  all  care  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Gooch.  "  You  '11  not 
know  her  again  when  you  come  back." 

Waife  pressed  the  hand  of  his  grandchild's  host,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"You  are  sure  you  will  find  your  way, — no,  that's  the 
wrong  turn, —  straight  on  to  the  town.  They  '11  be  sitting  up 
for  you  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  I  suppose,  of  course,  sir?  It 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  263 

seems  not  hospitable  like,  your  going  away  at  the  dead  of 
night  thus.  But  I  understand  you  don't  like  crying,  sir, — 
we  men  don't;  and  your  sweet  little  girl  I  dare  say  would  sob 
ready  to  break  her  heart  if  she  knew.  Fine  moonlight  night, 
sir, — straight  on.  And  I  say,  don't  fret  about  her:  wife 
loves  children  dearly, —  so  do  I.  Good-night." 

On  went  Waife, —  lamely,  slowly, —  Sir  Isaac's  white  coat 
gleaming  in  the  moon,  ghostlike.  On  he  went,  his  bundle 
strapped  across  his  shoulder,  leaning  on  his  staff,  along  by 
the  folded  sheep  and  the  sleeping  cattle.  But  when  he  got 
into  the  high  road,  Gatesboro'  full  before  him,  with  all  its 
roofs  and  spires,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  town,  and  tramped 
once  more  along  the  desert  thoroughfare, —  more  slowly  and 
more,  more  lamely  and  more,  till  several  milestones  were 
passed ;  and  then  he  crept  through  the  gap  of  a  hedgerow  to 
the  sheltering  eaves  of  a  haystack ;  and  under  that  roof-tree 
he  and  Sir  Isaac  lay  down  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
LAUGH  at  forebodings  of  evil,  but  tremble  after  day-dreams  of  happiness. 

WAIFE  left  behind  him  at  the  cottage  two  letters, — one  in- 
trusted to  the  bailiff,  with  a  sealed  bag,  for  Mr.  Hartopp; 
one  for  Sophy,  placed  on  a  chair  beside  her  bed. 

The  first  letter  was  as  follows :  — 

"  I  trust,  dear  and  honoured  sir,  that  I  shall  come  back  safely  ;  and 
when  I  do,  I  may  have  found  perhaps  a  home  for  her,  and  some  way  of 
life  such  as  you  would  not  blame.  But,  in  case  of  accident,  I  have  left 
with  Mr.  Gooch,  sealed  up,  the  money  we  made  at  Gatesboro',  after  pay- 
ing the  inn  bill,  doctor,  etc.,  and  retaining  the  mere  trifle  I  need  in  case 
I  and  Sir  Isaac  fail  to  support  ourselves.  You  will  kindly  take  care 
of  it.  I  should  not  feel  safe  with  more  money  about  me,  an  old  man. 
I  might  be  robbed  ;  besides,  I  am  careless.  I  never  can  keep  money ;  it 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

slips  out  of  my  hands  like  an  eel.  Heaven  bless  you,  sir ;  your  kindness 
seems  like  a  miracle  vouchsafed  to  me  for  that  child's  dear  sake.  No 
t-vil  can  chance  to  her  with  you  ;  and  if  I  should  fall  ill  and  die,  even 
then  you,  who  would  have  aided  the  tricksome  vagrant,  will  not  grudge 
the  saving  hand  to  the  harmless  child." 

The  letter  to  Sophy  ran  thus :  — 

"  Darling,  forgive  me ;  I  have  stolen  away  from  you,  but  only  for  a  few 
days,  and  only  in  order  to  see  if  we  cannot  gain  the  magic  home  where  I 
am  to  be  the  Genius,  and  you  the  Princess.  I  go  forth  with  such  a  light 
heart,  Sophy  dear,  I  shall  be  walking  thirty  miles  a  day,  and  not  feel  an 
ache  in  the  lame  leg :  you  could  not  keep  up  with  me  ;  you  know  you 
could  not.  So  think  over  the  cottage  and  the  basket-work,  and  practise 
at  samplers  and  pincushions,  when  it  is  too  hot  to  play ;  and  be  stout 
and  strong  against  I  come  back.  That,  I  trust,  will  be  this  day  week,  — 
—  't  is  but  seven  days ;  and  then  we  will  only  act  fairy  dramas  to  nodding 
trees,  with  linnets  for  the  orchestra;  and  even  Sir  Isaac  shall  not  be  de- 
meaned by  mercenary  tricks,  but  shall  employ  his  arithmetical  talents  in 
casting  up  the  weekly  bills,  and  he  shall  never  stand  on  his  hind  legs 
except  on  sunny  days,  when  he  shall  carry  a  parasol  to  shade  an  en- 
chanted princess.  Laugh,  darling,  —  let  me  fancy  I  see  you  laughing ; 
but  don't  fret,  —  don't  fancy  I  desert  you.  Do  try  and  get  well,  — 
quite,  quite  well ;  I  ask  it  of  you  on  my  knees." 

The  letter  and  the  bag  were  taken  over  at  sunrise  to  Mr. 
Hartopp's  villa.  Mr.  Hartopp  was  an  early  man.  Sophy 
overslept  herself:  her  room  was  to  the  west;  the  morning 
beams  did  not  reach  its  windows;  and  the  cottage  without 
children  woke  up  to  labour  noiseless  and  still.  So  when  at 
last  she  shook  off  sleep,  and  tossing  her  hair  from  her  blue 
eyes,  looked  round  and  became  conscious  of  the  strange  place, 
she  still  fancied  the  hour  early.  But  she  got  up,  drew  the 
curtain  from  the  window,  saw  the  sun  high  in  the  heavens, 
and,  ashamed  of  her  laziness,  turned,  and  lo!  the  letter  on 
the  chair!  Her  heart  at  once  misgave  her;  the  truth  flashed 
upon  a  reason  prematurely  quick  in  the  intuition  which  be- 
longs to  the  union  of  sensitive  affection  and  active  thought. 
She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned  deadly  pale.  It  was  some 
minutes  before  she  could  take  up  the  letter,  before  she  could 
break  the  seal.  When  she  did,  she  read  on  noiselessly,  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  265 

tears  dropping  over  the  page,  without  effort  or  sob.  She  had 
no  egotistical  sorrow,  no  grief  in  being  left  alone  with  stran- 
gers :  it  was  the  pathos  of  the  old  man's  lonely  wanderings,  of 
his  bereavement,  of  his  counterfeit  glee,  and  genuine  self-sac- 
rifice; this  it  was  that  suffused  her  whole  heart  with  unutter- 
able yearnings  of  tenderness,  gratitude,  pity,  veneration. 
But  when  she  had  wept  silently  for  some  time,  she  kissed  the 
letter  with  devout  passion,  and  turned  to  that  Heaven  to 
which  the  outcast  had  taught  her  first  to  pray. 

Afterwards  she  stood  still,  musing  a  little  while,  and  the 
sorrowful  shade  gradually  left  her  face.  Yes;  she  would 
obey  him:  she  would  not  fret;  she  would  try  and  get  well 
and  strong.  He  would  feel,  at  the  distance,  that  she  was 
true  to  his  wishes;  that  she  was  fitting  herself  to  be  again 
his  companion:  seven  days  would  soon  pass.  Hope,  that 
can  never  long  quit  the  heart  of  childhood,  brightened  over 
her  meditations,  as  the  morning  sun  over  a  landscape  that 
just  before  had  lain  sad  amidst  twilight  and  under  rains. 

When  she  came  downstairs,  Mrs.  Gooch  was  pleased  and 
surprised  to  observe  the  placid  smile  upon  her  face,  and  the 
quiet  activity  with  which,  after  the  morning  meal,  she  moved 
about  by  the  good  woman's  side  assisting  her  in  her  dairy- 
work  and  other  housewife  tasks,  talking  little,  comprehend- 
ing quickly, —  composed,  cheerful. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  don't  pine  after  your  good  grand- 
papa, as  we  feared  you  would." 

"He  told  me  not  to  pine,"  answered  Sophy,  simply,  but 
with  a  quivering  lip. 

When  the  noon  deepened,  and  it  became  too  warm  for  ex- 
ercise, Sophy  timidly  asked  if  Mrs.  Gooch  had  any  worsted 
and  knitting-needles,  and  being  accommodated  with  those 
implements  and  materials,  she  withdrew  to  the  arbour,  and 
seated  herself  to  work, — solitary  and  tranquil. 

What  made,  perhaps,  the  chief  strength  in  this  poor  child's 
nature  was  its  intense  trustfulness, — a  part,  perhaps,  of  its 
instinctive  appreciation  of  truth.  She  trusted  in  Waife,  in 
the  future,  in  Providence,  in  her  own  childish,  not  helpless, 
self. 


266  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Already,  as  her  slight  fingers  sorted  the  worsteds  and  her 
graceful  taste  shaded  their  hues  into  blended  harmony,  her 
mind  was  weaving,  not  less  harmoniously,  the  hues  in  the 
woof  of  dreams,  —  the  cottage  home,  the  harmless  tasks, 
Waife  with  his  pipe  in  the  armchair  under  some  porch, 
covered  like  that  one  yonder, —  why  not?  —  with  fragrant 
woodbine,  and  life  if  humble,  honest,  truthful,  not  shrink- 
ing from  the  day,  so  that  if  Lionel  met  her  again  she  should 
not  blush,  nor  he  be  shocked.  And  if  their  ways  were  so 
different  as  her  grandfather  said,  still  they  might  cross,  as 
they  had  crossed  before,  and  —  the  work  slid  from  her  hand 
—  the  sweet  lips  parted,  smiling:  a  picture  came  before  her 
eyes, —  her  grandfather,  Lionel,  herself;  all  three,  friends, 
and  happy ;  a  stream,  fair  as  the  Thames  had  seemed ;  green 
trees  all  bathed  in  summer;  the  boat  gliding  by;  in  that  boat 
they  three,  borne  softly  on, —  away,  away, — what  matters 
whither?  —  by  her  side  the  old  man;  facing  her,  the  boy's 
bright  kind  eyes.  She  started.  She  heard  noises, —  a  swing- 
ing gate,  footsteps.  She  started, —  she  rose, — voices;  one 
strange  to  her, —  a  man's  voice, —  then  the  Mayor's.  A  third 
voice, —  shrill,  stern;  a  terrible  voice, — heard  in  infancy, — 
associated  with  images  of  cruelty,  misery,  woe.  It  could  not 
be!  impossible!  Near,  nearer,  came  the  footsteps.  Seized 
with  the  impulse  of  flight,  she  sprang  to  the  mouth  of  the 
arbour.  Fronting  her  glared  two  dark,  baleful  eyes.  She 
stood, — arrested,  spellbound,  as  a  bird  fixed  rigid  by  the  gaze 
of  a  serpent. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Mayor;  all  right!  it  is  our  little  girl, —  our  dear 
Sophy.  This  way,  Mr.  Losely.  Such  a  pleasant  surprise  for 
you,  Sophy,  my  love ! "  said  Mrs.  Crane. 


BOOK    IV. 


CHAPTER   I. 

IN  the  kindliest  natures  there  is  a  certain  sensitiveness,  which,  when  wounded, 
occasions  the  same  pain,  and  bequeaths  the  same  resentment,  aa  mortified 
vanity  or  galled  self-love. 

IT  is  exactly  that  day  week,  towards  the  hour  of  five  in  the 
evening,  Mr.  Hartopp,  alone  in  the  parlour  behind  his  ware- 
house, is  locking  up  his  books  and  ledgers  preparatory  to  the 
return  to  his  villa.  There  is  a  certain  change  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  since  we  saw  it  last.  If  it  be  possi- 
ble for  Mr.  Hartopp  to  look  sullen, —  sullen  he  looks;  if  it  be 
possible  for  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  to  be  crestfallen, — 
crestfallen  he  is.  That  smooth  existence  has  surely  received 
some  fatal  concussion,  and  has  not  yet  recovered  the  shock. 
But  if  you  will  glance  beyond  the  parlour  at  Mr.  Williams 
giving  orders  in  the  warehouse,  at  the  warehousemen  them- 
selves, at  the  rough  faces  in  the  tan -yard, — nay,  at  Mike 
Callaghan,  who  has  just  brought  a  parcel  from  the  railway, 
all  of  them  have  evidently  shared  in  the  effects  of  the  concus- 
sion; all  of  them  wear  a  look  more  or  less  sullen;  all  seem 
crestfallen.  Nay,  could  you  carry  your  gaze  farther  on, — 
could  you  peep  into  the  shops  in  the  High  Street,  or  at  the 
loungers  in  the  city  reading-room;  could  you  extend  the  vi- 
sion farther  still, — to  Mr.  Hartopp's  villa,  behold  his  wife, 
his  little  ones,  his  men-servants,  and  his  maid-servants, — 
more  and  more  impressively  general  would  become  the  tokens 
of  disturbance  occasioned  by  that  infamous  concussion.  Every- 
where a  sullen  look, — everywhere  that  ineffable  aspect  of 
crestfallenness !  What  can  have  happened?  is  the  good  man 
bankrupt?  No,  rich  as  ever!  What  can  it  be?  Header! 


268  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

that  fatal  event  which  they  who  love  Josiah  Hartopp  are  ever 
at  watch  to  prevent,  despite  all  their  vigilance,  has  occurred ! 
Josiah  Hartopp  has  been  TAKEN  IN  !  Other  men  may  be  oc- 
casionally taken  in,  and  no  one  mourns ;  perhaps  they  deserve 
it!  they  are  not  especially  benevolent,  or  they  set  up  to  be 
specially  wise.  But  to  take  in  that  lamb!  And  it  was  not 
only  the  Mayor's  heart  that  was  wounded,  but  his  pride,  his 
self-esteem,  his  sense  of  dignity,  were  terribly  humiliated. 
For  as  we  know,  though  all  the  world  considered  Mr.  Hartopp 
the  very  man  born  to  be  taken  in,  and  therefore  combined  to 
protect  him,  yet  in  his  secret  soul  Mr.  Hartopp  considered 
that  no  man  less  needed  such  protection;  that  he  was  never 
taken  in,  unless  he  meant  to  be  so.  Thus  the  cruelty  and  in- 
gratitude of  the  base  action  under  which  his  crest  was  so 
fallen  jarred  on  his  whole  system.  Nay,  more,  he  could  not 
but  feel  that  the  event  would  long  affect  his  personal  comfort 
and  independence;  he  would  be  more  than  ever  under  the 
affectionate  tyranny  of  Mr.  Williams,  more  than  ever  be  an 
object  of  universal  surveillance  and  espionage.  There  would 
be  one  thought  paramount  throughout  Gatesboro'.  "The 
Mayor,  God  bless  him !  has  been  taken  in :  this  must  not  oc- 
cur again,  or  Gatesboro'  is  dishonoured,  and  Virtue  indeed  a 
name ! "  Mr.  Hartopp  felt  not  only  mortified  but  subjugated, 
—  he  who  had  hitherto  been  the  soft  subjugator  of  the  hardest. 
He  felt  not  only  subjugated,  but  indignant  at  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  so.  He  was  too  meekly  convinced  of  Heaven's 
unerring  justice  not  to  feel  assured  that  the  man  who  had 
taken  him  in  would  come  to  a  tragic  end.  He  would  not 
have  hung  that  man  with  his  own  hands:  he  was  too  mild 
for  vengeance.  But  if  he  had  seen  that  man  hanging  he 
would  have  said  piously,  "Fitting  retribution,"  and  passed 
on  his  way  soothed  and  comforted.  Taken  in !  —  taken  in  at 
last! — he,  Josiah  Hartopp,  taken  in  by  a  fellow  with  one 
eye! 


WHAT  WILL   HE   DO   WITH  IT?  269 


CHAPTEK   II. 
THE  Mayor  is  so  protected  that  he  cannot  help  himself. 

A  COMMOTION  without, — a  kind  of  howl,  a  kind  of  hoot. 
Mr.  Williams,  the  warehousemen,  the  tanners,  Mike 
Callaghan,  share  between  them  the  howl  and  the  hoot.  The 
Mayor  started :  is  it  possible !  His  door  is  burst  open,  and, 
scattering  all  who  sought  to  hold  him  back, —  scattering 
them  to  the  right  and  left  from  his  massive  torso  in  rushed 
the  man  who  had  taken  in  the  Mayor, —  the  fellow  with  one 
eye,  and  with  that  fellow,  shaggy  and  travel-soiled,  the  other 
dog! 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  charge  I  intrusted  to  you? 
My  child!  my  child!  where  is  she?" 

Waife's  face  was  wild  with  the  agony  of  his  emotions,  and 
his  voice  was  so  sharply  terrible  that  it  went  like  a  knife  into 
the  heart  of  the  men,  who,  thrust  aside  for  the  moment,  now 
followed  him,  fearful,  into  the  room. 

"Mr. — Mr.  Chapman,  sir,"  faltered  the  Mayor,  striving 
hard  to  recover  dignity  and  self-possession,  "  I  am  astonished 
at  your — your  —  " 

"Audacity!"  interposed  Mr.  Williams. 

"My  child!  my  Sophy!  my  child!  answer  me,  man!" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Mayor,  drawing  himself  up,  "have  you  not 
got  the  note  which  I  left  at  my  bailiff's  cottage  in  case  you 
called  there?" 

"Your  note!  this  thing!  "  said  Waife,  striking  a  crumpled 
paper  with  his  hand,  and  running  his  eye  over  its  contents. 
"  You  have  rendered  up,  you  say,  the  child  to  her  lawful  pro- 
tector? Gracious  heavens!  did  /trust  her  to  you,  or  not?" 

"  Leave  the  room  all  of  you, "  said  the  Mayor,  with  a  sud- 
den return  of  his  usual  calm  vigour. 

"You  go, — you,  sirs;  what  the  deuce  do  you  do  here?" 


270  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

growled  Williams  to  the  meaner  throng.  "Out!  I  stay; 
never  fear,  men,  I  '11  take  care  of  him ! " 

The  bystanders  surlily  slunk  off:  but  none  returned  to 
their  work;  they  stood  within  reach  of  call  by  the  shut  door. 
Williams  tucked  up  his  coat-sleeves,  clenched  his  fists,  hung 
his  head  doggedly  on  one  side,  and  looked  altogether  so  pug- 
nacious and  minatory  that  Sir  Isaac,  who,  though  in  a  state 
of  great  excitement,  had  hitherto  retained  self-control,  peered 
at  him  under  his  curls,  stiffened  his  back,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  growled  formidably. 

"My  good  Williams,  leave  us,"  said  the  Mayor;  "I  would 
be  alone  with  this  person." 

"Alone, — you!  out  of  the  question.  Now  you  have  been 
once  taken  in,  and  you  own  it, —  it  is  my  duty  to  protect  you 
henceforth;  and  I  will  to  the  end  of  my  days." 

The  Mayor  sighed  heavily.  "  Well,  Williams,  well !  —  take 
a  chair,  and  be  quiet.  Now,  Mr.  Chapman,  so  to  call  you 
still;  you  have  deceived  me." 

"I?  how?" 

The  Mayor  was  puzzled.  "Deceived  me,"  he  said  at  last, 
"in  my  knowledge  of  human  nature.  I  thought  you  an 
honest  man,  sir.  And  you  are  —  but  no  matter." 

WAIFE  (impatiently).  —  "My  child!  my  child!  you  have 
given  her  up  to  —  to  —  " 

MAYOR.  —  "  Her  own  father,  sir. " 

WAIFE  (echoing  the  words  as  he  staggers  back). — "I 
thought  so!  I  thought  it!" 

MAYOR.  — "  In  so  doing  I  obeyed  the  law :  he  had  legal 
power  to  enforce  his  demand."  The  Mayor's  voice  was  al- 
most apologetic  in  its  tone;  for  he  was  affected  by  Waife's 
anguish,  and  not  able  to  silence  a  pang  of  remorse.  After 
all,  he  had  been  trusted;  and  he  had,  excusably  perhaps, 
necessarily  perhaps,  but  still  he  had  failed  to  fulfil  the  trust. 
"But,"  added  the  Mayor,  as  if  reassuring  himself,  "but  I  re- 
fused at  first  to  give  her  up  even  to  her  own  father ;  at  first 
insisted  upon  waiting  till  your  return;  and  it  was  only  when 
I  was  informed  what  you  yourself  were  that  my  scruples  gave 
way." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  271 

Waife  remained  long  silent,  breathing  very  hard,  passing 
his  hand  several  times  over  his  forehead ;  at  last  he  said  more 
quietly  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "Will  you  tell  me  where 
they  have  gone?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  and,  if  I  did  know,  I  would  not  tell  you ! 
Are  they  not  right  when  they  say  that  that  innocent  child 
should  not  be  tempted  away  by  —  by  —  a  —  in  short  by  you, 
sir?" 

"  They  said !  Her  father  —  said  that !  —  he  said  that !  —  Did 
he  —  did  he  say  it?  Had  he  the  heart?" 

MAYOR.  —  "  No,  I  don't  think  he  said  it.  Eh,  Mr.  Williams? 
He  spoke  little  to  me !  " 

MR.  WILLIAMS.  — "  Of  course  he  would  not  expose  that 
person.  But  the  woman, —  the  lady,  I  mean." 

WAIFE.  —  "Woman!  Ah,  yes.  The  bailiff's  wife  said 
there  was  a  woman.  What  woman?  What 's  her  name?  " 

MAYOR.  — "  Really  you  must  excuse  me.  I  can  say  no 
more.  I  have  consented  to  see  you  thus,  because  whatever 
you  might  have  been,  or  may  be,  still  it  was  due  to  myself  to 
explain  how  I  came  to  give  up  the  child;  and,  besides,  you 
left  money  with  me,  and  that,  at  least,  I  can  give  to  your 
own  hand." 

The  Mayor  turned  to  his  desk,  unlocked  it,  and  drew 
forth  the  bag  which  Waife  had  sent  to  him. 

As  he  extended  it  towards  the  Comedian,  his  hand  trem- 
bled, and  his  cheek  flushed.  For  Waife's  one  bright  eye  had 
in  it  such  depth  of  reproach,  that  again  the  Mayor's  con- 
science was  sorely  troubled;  and  he  would  have  given  ten 
times  the  contents  of  that  bag  to  have  been  alone  with  the 
vagrant,  and  to  have  said  the  soothing  things  he  did  not  dare 
to  say  before  Williams,  who  sat  there  mute  and  grim,  guard- 
ing him  from  being  once  more  "taken  in."  "If  you  had  con- 
fided in  me  at  first,  Mr.  Chapman,"  he  said,  pathetically,  "or 
even  if  now,  I  could  aid  you  in  an  honest  way  of  life !  " 

"Aid  him  —  now!"  said  Williams,  with  a  snort.  "At  it 
again !  you  're  not  a  man :  you  're  an  angel !  " 

"But  if  he  is  penitent,  Williams." 

"So!  so!  so!"  murmured  Waife.     "Thank  Heaven  it  was 


272  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

not  lie  who  spoke  against  me :  it  was  but  a  strange  woman. 
Oh ! "  he  suddenly  broke  off  with  a  groan.  "  Oh  —  but  that 
strange  woman, —  who,  what  can  she  be?  and  Sophy  with  her 
and  him.  Distraction!  Yes,  yes,  I  take  the  money.  I  shall 
want  it  all.  Sir  Isaac,  pick  up  that  bag.  Gentlemen,  good- 
day  to  you!"  He  bowed;  such  a  failure  that  bow!  Nothing 
ducal  in  it!  bowed  and  turned  towards  the  door;  then,  when 
he  gained  the  threshold,  as  if  some  meeker,  holier  thought 
restored  to  him  dignity  of  bearing,  his  form  rose,  though  his 
face  softened,  and  stretching  his  right  hand  towards  the 
Mayor,  he  said,  "  You  did  but  as  all  perhaps  would  have  done 
on  the  evidence  before  you.  You  meant  to  be  kind  to  her. 
If  you  knew  all,  how  you  would  repent!  I  do  not  blame, — 
I  forgive  you." 

He  was  gone :  the  Mayor  stood  transfixed.  Even  Williams 
felt  a  cold  comfortless  thrill.  "He  does  not  look  like  it," 
said  the  foreman.  "  Cheer  up,  sir,  no  wonder  you  were  taken 
in:  who  would  not  have  been?  " 

"Hark!  that  hoot  again.  Go,  Williams,  don't  let  the  men 
insult  him.  Go,  do, — I  shall  be  grateful." 

But  before  Williams  got  to  the  door,  the  cripple  and  his 
dog  had  vanished ;  vanished  down  a  dark  narrow  alley  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  The  rude  workmen  had  followed 
him  to  the  mouth  of  the  alley,  mocking  him.  Of  the  exact 
charge  against  the  Comedian's  good  name  they  were  not  in- 
formed ;  that  knowledge  was  confined  to  the  Mayor  and  Mr. 
Williams.  But  the  latter  had  dropped  such  harsh  expres- 
sions, that  bad  as  the  charge  might  really  be,  all  in  Mr. 
Hartopp's  employment  probably  deemed  it  worse,  if  possible, 
than  it  really  was.  And  wretch  indeed  must  be  the  man  by 
whom  the  Mayor  had  been  confessedly  taken  in,  and  whom 
the  Mayor  had  indignantly  given  up  to  the  reproaches  of  his 
own  conscience.  But  the  cripple  was  now  out  of  sight,  lost 
amidst  those  labyrinths  of  squalid  homes  which,  in  great 
towns,  are  thrust  beyond  view,  branching  off  abruptly  behind 
High  Streets  and  Market  Places,  so  that  strangers  passing 
only  along  the  broad  thoroughfares,  with  glittering  shops  and 
gaslit  causeways,  exclaim,  "Where  do  the  poor  live?" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  273 


CHAPTER   in. 

ECCE   iterum   Crispinus! 

IT  was  by  no  calculation,  but  by  involuntary  impulse,  that 
Waife,  thus  escaping  from  the  harsh  looks  and  taunting  mur- 
murs of  the  gossips  round  the  Mayor's  door,  dived  into  those 
sordid  devious  lanes.  Vaguely  he  felt  that  a  ban  was  upon 
him ;  that  the  covering  he  had  thrown  over  his  brand  of  out- 
cast was  lifted  up;  that  a  sentence  of  expulsion  from  the 
High  Streets  and  Market  Places  of  decorous  life  was  passed 
against  him.  He  had  been  robbed  of  his  child,  and  Society, 
speaking  in  the  voice  of  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  said, 
"  Rightly !  thou  art  not  fit  companion  for  the  innocent ! " 

At  length  he  found  himself  out  of  the  town,  beyond  Its 
straggling  suburbs,  and  once  more  on  the  solitary  road.  He 
had  already  walked  far  that  day.  He  was  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted. He  sat  himself  down  in  a  dry  ditch  by  the  hedge- 
row, and  taking  his  head  between  his  hands,  strove  to 
recollect  his  thoughts  and  rearrange  his  plans. 

Waife  had  returned  that  day  to  the  bailiff's  cottage  joyous 
and  elated.  He  had  spent  the  week  in  travelling;  partly, 
though  not  all  the  way,  on  foot,  to  the  distant  village,  in 
which  he  had  learned  in  youth  the  basketmaker's  art!  He 
had  found  the  very  cottage  wherein  he  had  then  lodged  va- 
cant and  to  be  let.  There  seemed  a  ready  opening  for  the 
humble  but  pleasant  craft  to  which  he  had  diverted  his 
ambition. 

The  bailiff  intrusted  with  the  letting  of  the  cottage  and 
osier-ground  had,  it  is  true,  requested  some  reference;  not, 
of  course,  as  to  all  a  tenant's  antecedents,  but  as  to  the  rea- 
sonable probability  that  the  tenant  would  be  a  quiet  sober 
man,  who  would  pay  his  rent  and  abstain  from  poaching. 
Waife  thought  he  might  safely  presume  that  the  Mayor  of 
Gatesboro'  would  not,  so  far  as  that  went,  object  to  take  his 

VOL.  I.  —  18 


274  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH   IT? 

past  upon  trust,  and  give  him  a  good  word  towards  securing 
so  harmless  and  obscure  a  future.  Waife  had  never  before 
asked  such  a  favour  of  any  man;  he  shrank  from  doing  so 
now;  but  for  his  grandchild's  sake,  he  would  waive  his  scru- 
ples or  humble  his  pride. 

Thus,  then,  he  had  come  back,  full  of  Elysian  dreams,  to 
his  Sophy, —  his  Enchanted  Princess.  Gone,  taken  away, 
and  with  the  Mayor's  consent,  — the  consent  of  the  very  man 
upon  whom  he  had  been  relying  to  secure  a  livelihood  and  a 
shelter!  Little  more  had  he  learned  at  the  cottage,  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gooch  had  been  cautioned  to  be  as  brief  as  possible, 
and  give  him  no  clew  to  regain  his  lost  treasure,  beyond  the 
note  which  informed  him  it  was  with  a  lawful  possessor. 
And,  indeed,  the  worthy  pair  were  now  prejudiced  against 
the  vagrant,  and  were  rude  to  him.  But  he  had  not  tarried 
to  cross-examine  and  inquire.  He  had  rushed  at  once  to  the 
Mayor.  Sophy  was  with  one  whose  legal  right  to  dispose  of 
her  he  could  not  question.  But  where  that  person  would 
take  her,  where  he  resided,  what  he  would  do  with  her,  he 
had  no  means  to  conjecture.  Most  probably  (he  thought  and 
guessed)  she  would  be  carried  abroad,  was  already  out  of  the 
country.  But  the  woman  with  Losely,  he  had  not  heard  her 
described;  his  guesses  did  not  turn  towards  Mrs.  Crane:  the 
woman  was  evidently  hostile  to  him ;  it  was  the  woman  who 
had  spoken  against  him, — not  Losely;  the  woman  whose 
tongue  had  poisoned  Hartopp's  mind,  and  turned  into  scorn 
all  that  admiring  respect  which  had  before  greeted  the  great 
Comedian.  Why  was  that  woman  his  enemy?  Who  could 
she  be?  What  had  she  to  do  with  Sophy?  He  was  half  be- 
side himself  with  terror.  It  was  to  save  her  less  even  from 
Losely  than  from  such  direful  women  as  Losely  made  his  con- 
fidants and  associates  that  Waife  had  taken  Sophy  to  himself. 
As  for  Mrs.  Crane,  she  had  never  seemed  a  foe  to  him;  she 
had  ceded  the  child  to  him  willingly:  he  had  no  reason  to 
believe,  from  the  way  in  which  she  had  spoken  of  Losely 
when  he  last  saw  her,  that  she  could  henceforth  aid  the  inter- 
ests or  share  the  schemes  of  the  man  whose  perfidies  she  then 
denounced;  and  as  to  Rugge,  he  had  not  appeared  at  Gates- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  275 

boro'.  Mrs.  Crane  had  prudently  suggested  that  his  presence 
would  not  be  propitiatory  or  discreet,  and  that  all  reference 
to  him,  or  to  the  contract  with  him,  should  be  suppressed. 
Thus  Waife  was  wholly  without  one  guiding  evidence,  one 
groundwork  for  conjecture,  that  might  enable  him  to  track 
the  lost;  all  he  knew  was,  that  she  had  been  given  up  to  a 
man  whose  whereabouts  it  was  difficult  to  discover, —  a  va- 
grant, of  life  darker  and  more  hidden  than  his  own. 

But  how  had  the  hunters  discovered  the  place  where  he 
had  treasured  up  his  Sophy?  how  dogged  that  retreat?  Per- 
haps from  the  village  in  which  we  first  saw  him.  Ay,  doubt- 
less, learned  from  Mrs.  Saunders  of  the  dog  he  had  purchased, 
and  the  dog  would  have  served  to  direct  them  on  his  path. 
At  that  thought  he  pushed  away  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  been  rest- 
ing his  head  on  the  old  man's  knee, —  pushed  him  away  an- 
grily; the  poor  dog  slunk  off  in  sorrowful  surprise,  and 
whined. 

"  Ungrateful  wretch  that  I  am ! "  cried  Waife,  and  he 
opened  his  arms  to  the  brute,  who  bounded  forgivingly  to 
his  breast. 

"Come,  come,  we  will  go  back  to  the  village  in  Surrey. 
Tramp,  tramp ! "  said  the  cripple,  rousing  himself.  And  at 
that  moment,  just  as  he  gained  his  feet,  a  friendly  hand  was 
laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  friendly  voice  said, — 

"  I  have  found  you !  the  crystal  said  so !     Marbellous ! " 

"Merle,"  faltered  out  the  vagrant,  "Merle,  you  here!  Oh, 
perhaps  you  come  to  tell  me  good  news:  you  have  seen 
Sophy;  you  know  where  she  is!" 

The  Cobbler  shook  his  head.  "Can't  see  her  just  at  pres- 
ent. Crystal  says  nout  about  her.  But  I  know  she  was 
taken  from  you  —  and  —  and  —  you  shake  tremenjous !  Lean 
on  me,  Mr.  Waife,  and  call  off  that  big  animal.  He 's  a  sus- 
picating  my  calves  and  circumtittyvating  them.  Thank  ye, 
sir.  You  see  I  was  born  with  sinister  aspects  in  my  Twelfth 
House,  which  appertains  to  big  animals  and  enemies;  and 
dogs  of  that  size  about  one's  calves  are  —  malefics!  " 

As  Merle  now  slowly  led  the  cripple,  and  Sir  Isaac,  relin- 
quishing his  first  suspicions,  walked  droopingly  beside  them, 


276  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  Cobbler  began  a  long  story,  much  encumbered  by  astro- 
logical illustrations  and  moralizing  comments.  The  substance 
of  his  narrative  is  thus  epitomized:  Rugge,  in  pursuing 
Waife's  track,  had  naturally  called  on  Merle  in  company 
with  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane.  The  Cobbler  had  no  clew  to 
give,  and  no  mind  to  give  it  if  clew  he  had  possessed.  But 
his  curiosity  being  roused,  he  had  smothered  the  inclination 
to  dismiss  the  inquirers  with  more  speed  than  good  breeding, 
and  even  refreshed  his  slight  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Rugge 
in  so  well  simulated  a  courtesy  that  that  gentleman,  when 
left  behind  by  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  in  their  journey  to 
Gatesboro',  condescended,  for  want  of  other  company,  to 
drink  tea  with  Mr.  Merle ;  and  tea  being  succeeded  by  stronger 
potations,  he  fairly  unbosomed  himself  of  his  hopes  of  recov- 
ering Sophy  and  his  ambition  of  hiring  the  York  theatre. 

The  day  afterwards  Rugge  went  away  seemingly  in  high 
spirits,  and  the  Cobbler  had  no  doubt,  from  some  words  he 
let  fall  in  passing  Merle's  stall  towards  the  railway,  that 
Sophy  was  recaptured,  and  that  Rugge  was  summoned  to 
take  possession  of  her.  Ascertaining  from  the  manager  that 
Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  had  gone  to  Gatesboro',  the  Cobbler 
called  to  mind  that  he  had  a  sister  living  there,  married  to  a 
green-grocer  in  a  very  small  way,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
many  years ;  and  finding  his  business  slack  just  then,  he  re- 
solved to  pay  this  relative  a  visit,  with  the  benevolent  inten- 
tion of  looking  up  Waife,  whom  he  expected  from  Rugge's 
account  to  find  there,  and  offering  him  any  consolation  or  aid 
in  his  power,  should  Sophy  have  been  taken  from  him  against 
his  will.  A  consultation  with  his  crystal,  which  showed  him 
the  face  of  Mr.  Waife  alone  and  much  dejected,  and  a  horary 
scheme  which  promised  success  to  his  journey,  decided  his 
movements.  He  had  arrived  at  Gatesboro'  the  day  before, 
had  heard  a  confused  story  about  a  Mr.  Chapman,  with  his 
dog  and  his  child,  whom  the  Mayor  had  first  taken  up,  but 
who  afterwards,  in  some  mysterious  manner,  had  taken  in  the 
Mayor.  Happily,  the  darker  gossip  in  the  High  Street  had 
not  penetrated  the  back  lane  in  which  Merle's  sister  resided. 
There,  little  more  was  known  than  the  fact  that  this  myste- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  277 

rious  stranger  had  imposed  on  the  wisdom  of  Gatesboro's 
learned  Institute  and  enlightened  Mayor.  Merle,  at  no  loss 
to  identify  Waife  with  Chapman,  could  only  suppose  that  he 
had  been  discovered  to  be  a  strolling  player  in  Rugge 's  exhi- 
bition, after  pretending  to  be  some  much  greater  man.  Such 
an  offence  the  Cobbler  was  not  disposed  to  consider  heinous. 
But  Mr.  Chapman  was  gone  from  Gatesboro'  none  knew 
whither;  and  Merle  had  not  yet  ventured  to  call  himself  on 
the  chief  magistrate  of  the  place,  to  inquire  after  a  man  by 
whom  that  august  personage  had  been  deceived.  "  Howsom- 
ever,"  quoth  Merle,  in  conclusion,  "I  was  just  standing  at 
my  sister's  door,  with  her  last  babby  in  my  arms,  in  Scrob 
Lane,  when  I  saw  you  pass  by  like  a  shot.  You  were  gone 
while  I  ran  in  to  give  up  the  babby,  who  is  teething,  with 
malefics  in  square, —  gone,  clean  out  of  sight.  You  took  one 
turn;  I  took  another:  but  you  see  we  meet  at  last,  as  good 
men  always  do  in  this  world  or  the  other,  which  is  the  same 
thing  in  the  long  run." 

Waife,  who  had  listened  to  his  friend  without  other  inter- 
ruption than  an  occasional  nod  of  the  head  or  interjectional 
expletive,  was  now  restored  to  much  of  his  constitutional 
mood  of  sanguine  cheerfulness.  He  recognized  Mrs.  Crane 
in  the  woman  described;  and,  if  surprised,  he  was  rejoiced. 
For,  much  as  he  disliked  that  gentlewoman,  he  thought  Sophy 
might  be  in  worse  female  hands.  Without  much  need  of  sa- 
gacity, he  divined  the  gist  of  the  truth.  Losely  had  somehow 
or  other  become  acquainted  with  Rugge,  and  sold  Sophy  to 
the  manager.  Where  Rugge  was,  there  would  Sophy  be.  It 
could  not  be  very  difficult  to  find  out  the  place  in  which  Rugge 
was  now  exhibiting;  and  then  — ah  then!  Waife  whistled  to 
Sir  Isaac,  tapped  his  forehead,  and  smiled  triumphantly. 
Meanwhile  the  Cobbler  had  led  him  back  into  the  suburb, 
with  the  kind  intention  of  offering  him  food  and  bed  for  the 
night  at  his  sister's  house.  But  Waife  had  already  formed 
his  plan;  in  London,  and  in  London  alone,  could  he  be  sure 
to  learn  where  Rugge  was  now  exhibiting;  in  London  there 
were  places  at  which  that  information  could  be  gleaned  at 
once.  The  last  train  to  the  metropolis  was  not  gone.  He 


278  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

would  si  ink  round  the  town  to  the  station :  he  and  Sir  Isaac 
at  that  hour  might  secure  places  unnoticed. 

When  Merle  found  it  was  in  vain  to  press  him  to  stay  over 
the  night,  the  good-hearted  Cobbler  accompanied  him  to  the 
train,  and,  while  Waife  shrank  into  a  dark  corner,  bought  the 
tickets  for  dog  and  master.  As  he  was  paying  for  these,  he 
overheard  two  citizens  talking  of  Mr.  Chapman.  It  was  in- 
deed Mr.  Williams  explaining  to  a  fellow-burgess  just  re- 
turned to  Gatesboro',  after  a  week's  absence,  how  and  by 
what  manner  of  man  Mr.  Hartopp  had  been  taken  in.  At 
what  Williams  said,  the  Cobbler's  cheek  paled.  When  he 
joined  the  Comedian  his  manner  was  greatly  altered;  he  gave 
the  tickets  without  speaking,  but  looked  hard  into  Waife's 
face,  as  the  latter  repaid  him  the  fares.  "No,"  said  the 
Cobbler,  suddenly,  "I  don't  believe  it." 

"Believe  what?"  asked  Waife,  startled. 

"  That  you  are  — " 

The  Cobbler  paused,  bent  forward,  whispered  the  rest  of 
the  sentence  close  in  the  vagrant's  ear.  Waife's  head  fell  on 
his  bosom,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"Speak,"  cried  Merle;  "say  'tis  a  lie."  The  poor  cripple's 
lip  writhed,  but  he  still  spoke  not. 

Merle  looked  aghast  at  that  obstinate  silence.  At  length, 
but  very  slowly,  as  the  warning  bell  summoned  him  and  Sir 
Isaac  to  their  several  places  in  the  train,  Waife  found  voice. 

"So  you  too,  you  too  desert  and  despise  me!  God's  will  be 
done!"  He  moved  away, —  spiritless,  limping,  hiding  his 
face  as  well  as  he  could.  The  porter  took  the  dog  from  him, 
to  thrust  it  into  one  of  the  boxes  reserved  for  such  four-footed 
passengers. 

Waife  thus  parted  from  his  last  friend  —  I  mean  the  dog  — 
looked  after  Sir  Isaac  wistfully,  and  crept  into  a  third-class 
carriage,  in  which  luckily  there  was  no  one  else.  Suddenly 
Merle  jumped  in,  snatched  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  tightly. 

"  I  don't  despise,  I  don't  turn  my  back  on  you :  whenever 
you  and  the  little  one  want  a  home  and  a  friend,  come  to  Kit 
Merle  as  before,  and  I  '11  bite  my  tongue  out  if  I  ask  any 
more  questions  of  you;  I'll  ask  the  stars  instead." 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  279 

The  Cobbler  had  but  just  time  to  splutter  out  these  com- 
forting words  and  redescend  the  carriage,  when  the  train  put 
itself  into  movement,  and  the  lifelike  iron  miracle,  fuming, 
hissing,  and  screeching,  bore  off  to  London  its  motley  convoy 
of  human  beings,  each  passenger's  heart  a  mystery  to  the 
other,  all  bound  the 'same  road,  all  wedged  close  within  the 
same  whirling  mechanism ;  what  a  separate  and  distinct  world 
in  each !  Such  is  Civilization !  How  like  we  are  one  to  the 
other  in  the  mass!  how  strangely  dissimilar  in  the  abstract! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  IF,"  says  a  great  thinker  (Degerando,  "  Du  Perfectionment  Moral,"  chapter 
ix.,  "On  the  Difficulties  we  encounter  in  Self-Study  ")  —  "  if  one  concentrates 
reflection  too  much  on  one's  self,  one  ends  by  no  longer  seeing  anything,  or 
Seeing  only  what  one  wishes.  By  the  very  act,  as  it  were,  of  capturing  one's 
self,  the  personage  we  believe  we  have  seized  escapes,  disappears.  Nor  is  it 
only  the  complexity  of  our  inner  being  which  obstructs  our  examination, 
but  its  exceeding  variability.  The  investigator's  regard  should  embrace 
all  the  sides  of  the  subject,  and  perseveringly  pursue  all  its  phases." 

IT  is  the  race-week  in  Humberston,  a  county  town  far  from 
Gatesboro',  and  in  the  north  of  England.  The  races  last  three 
days :  the  first  day  is  over ;  it  has  been  a  brilliant  spectacle ; 
the  course  crowded  with  the  carriages  of  provincial  magnates, 
with  equestrian  betters  of  note  from  the  metropolis;  black- 
legs in  great  muster;  there  have  been  gaming-booths  on  the 
ground,  and  gypsies  telling  fortunes;  much  champagne  im- 
bibed by  the  well-bred,  much  soda-water  and  brandy  by  the 
vulgar.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  have  been  lost  and 
won:  some  paupers  have  been  for  the  time  enriched;  some 
rich  men  made  poor  for  life.  Horses  have  won  fame ;  some 
of  their  owners  lost  character.  Din  and  uproar,  and  coarse 
oaths,  and  rude  passions, —  all  have  had  their  hour.  The 
amateurs  of  the  higher  classes  have  gone  back  to  dignified 


280  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

country-houses,  as  courteous  hosts  or  favoured  guests.  The 
professional  speculators  of  a  lower  grade  have  poured  back 
Into  the  county  town,  and  inns  and  taverns  are  crowded. 
Drink  is  hotly  called  for  at  reeking  bars;  waiters  and  cham- 
bermaids pass  to  and  fro,  with  dishes  and  tankards  and  bot- 
tles in  their  hands.  All  is  noise  and  bustle,  and  eating  and 
swilling,  and  disputation  and  slang,  wild  glee,  and  wilder 
despair,  amongst  those  who  come  back  from  the  race-course 
to  the  inns  in  the  county  town.  At  one  of  these  taverns, 
neither  the  best  nor  the  worst,  and  in  a  small  narrow  slice  of 
a  room  that  seemed  robbed  from  the  landing-place,  sat  Mrs. 
Crane,  in  her  iron-gray  silk  gown.  She  was  seated  close  by 
the  open  window,  as  carriages,  chaises,  flies,  carts,  vans,  and 
horsemen  succeeded  each  other  thick  and  fast,  watching  the 
scene  with  a  soured,  scornful  look.  For  human  joy,  as  for 
human  grief,  she  had  little  sympathy.  Life  had  no  Saturna- 
lian  holidays  left  for  her.  Some  memory  in  her  past  had 
poisoned  the  well-springs  of  her  social  being.  Hopes  and 
objects  she  had  still,  but  out  of  the  wrecks  of  the  natural  and 
healthful  existence  of  womanhood,  those  objects  and  hopes 
stood  forth  exaggerated,  intense,  as  are  the  ruling  passions  in 
monomania.  A  bad  woman  is  popularly  said  to  be  worse 
than  a  wicked  man.  If  so,  partly  because  women,  being 
more  solitary,  brood  more  unceasingly  over  cherished  ideas, 
whether  good  or  evil ;  partly  also,  for  the  same  reason  that 
makes  a  wicked  gentleman,  who  has  lost  caste  and  character, 
more  irreclaimable  than  a  wicked  clown,  low-born  and  low- 
bred, namely,  that  in  proportion  to  the  loss  of  shame  is  the 
gain  in  recklessness :  but  principally,  perhaps,  because  in  ex- 
treme wickedness  there  is  necessarily  a  distortion  of  the  rea- 
soning faculty;  and  man,  accustomed  from  the  cradle  rather 
to  reason  than  to  feel,  has  that  faculty  more  firm  against 
abrupt  twists  and  lesions  than  it  is  in  woman;  where  virtue 
may  have  left  him,  logic  may  still  linger;  and  he  may  de- 
cline to  push  evil  to  a  point  at  which  it  is  clear  to  his  under- 
standing that  profit  vanishes  and  punishment  rests;  while 
woman,  once  abandoned  to  ill,  finds  sufficient  charm  in  its 
mere  excitement,  and,  regardless  of  consequences,  where  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  281 

man  asks,  "Can  I?"  raves  out,  "I  will!  "  Thus  man  may  be 
criminal  through  cupidity,  vanity,  love,  jealousy,  fear,  ambi- 
tion ;  rarely  in  civilized,  that  is,  reasoning  life,  through  hate 
and  revenge ;  for  hate  is  a  profitless  investment,  and  revenge 
a  ruinous  speculation.  But  when  women  are  thoroughly  de- 
praved and  hardened,  nine  times  out  of  ten  it  is  hatred  or 
revenge  that  makes  them  so.  Arabella  Crane  had  not,  how- 
ever, attained  to  that  last  state  of  wickedness,  which,  con- 
sistent in  evil,  is  callous  to  remorse;  she  was  not  yet  un- 
sexed.  In  her  nature  was  still  that  essence,  "varying  and 
mutable,"  which  distinguishes  woman  while  womanhood  is 
left  to  her.  And  now,  as  she  sat  gazing  on  the  throng  below, 
her  haggard  mind  recoiled  perhaps  from  the  conscious  shadow 
of  the  Evil  Principle  which,  invoked  as  an  ally,  remains  as  a 
destroyer.  Her  dark  front  relaxed;  she  moved  in  her  seat 
uneasily.  "Must  it  be  always  thus?"  she  muttered, —  "al- 
ways this  hell  here!  Even  now,  if  in  one  large  pardon  I 
could  include  the  undoer,  the  earth,  myself,  and  again  be  hu- 
man,—  human,  even  as  those  slight  triflers  or  coarse  brawl- 
ers that  pass  yonder!  Oh,  for  something  in  common  with 
common  life !  " 

Her  lips  closed,  and  her  eyes  again  fell  upon  the  crowded 
street.  At  that  moment  three  or  four  heavy  vans  or  wagons 
filled  with  operatives  or  labourers  and  their  wives,  coming 
back  from  the  race-course,  obstructed  the  way;  two  outriders 
in  satin  jackets  were  expostulating,  cracking  their  whips, 
and  seeking  to  clear  space  for  an  open  carriage  with  four 
thoroughbred  impatient  horses.  Towards  that  carriage  every 
gazer  from  the  windows  was  directing  eager  eyes ;  each  foot- 
passenger  on  the  pavement  lifted  his  hat:  evidently  in  that 
carriage  some  great  person!  Like  all  who  are  at  war  with 
the  world  as  it  is,  Arabella  Crane  abhorred  the  great,  and  de- 
spised the  small  for  worshipping  the  great.  But  still  her 
own  fierce  dark  eyes  mechanically  followed  those  of  the  vul- 
gar. The  carriage  bore  a  marquess's  coronet  on  its  panels, 
and  was  filled  with  ladies;  two  other  carriages  bearing  a 
similar  coronet,  and  evidently  belonging  to  the  same  party, 
were  in  the  rear.  Mrs.  Crane  started.  In  that  first  carriage, 


282  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

as  it  now  slowly  moved  under  her  very  window,  and  paused  a 
minute  or  more  till  the  obstructing  vehicles  in  front  were 
marshalled  into  order,  there  flashed  upon  her  eyes  a  face  ra- 
diant with  female  beauty  in  its  most  glorious  prime.  Amongst 
the  crowd  at  that  moment  was  a  blind  man,  adding  to  the 
various  discords  of  the  street  by  a  miserable  hurdy-gurdy.  In 
the  movement  of  the  throng  to  get  nearer  to  a  sight  of  the 
ladies  in  the  carriage,  this  poor  creature  was  thrown  forward; 
the  dog  that  led  him,  an  ugly  brute,  on  his  own  account  or 
his  master's  took  fright,  broke  from  the  string,  and  ran  under 
the  horses' hoofs,  snarling.  The  horses  became  restive;  the 
blind  man  made  a  plunge  after  his  dog,  and  was  all  but  run 
over.  The  lady  in  the  first  carriage,  alarmed  for  his  safety, 
rose  up  from  her  seat,  and  made  her  outriders  dismount,  lead 
away  the  poor  blind  man,  and  restore  to  him  his  dog.  Thus 
engaged,  her  face  shone  full  upon  Arabella  Crane;  and 
with  that  face  rushed  a  tide  of  earlier  memories.  Long, 
very  long,  since  she  had  seen  that  face, —  seen  it  in  those 
years  when  she  herself,  Arabella  Crane,  was  young  and 
handsome. 

The  poor  man, —  who  seemed  not  to  realize  the  idea  of  the 
danger  he  had  escaped, —  once  more  safe,  the  lady  resumed 
her  seat;  and  now  that  the  momentary  animation  of  humane 
fear  and  womanly  compassion  passed  from  her  countenance, 
its  expression  altered;  it  took  the  calm,  almost  the  coldness, 
of  a  Greek  statue.  But  with  the  calm  there  was  a  list- 
less melancholy  which  Greek  sculpture  never  gives  to  the 
Parian  stone:  stone  cannot  convey  that  melancholy;  it  is 
the  shadow  which  needs  for  its  substance  a  living,  mortal 
heart. 

Crack  went  the  whips:  the  horses  bounded  on;  the  equi- 
page rolled  fast  down  the  street,  followed  by  its  satellites. 
"  Well ! "  said  a  voice  in  the  street  below,  "  I  never  saw  Lady 
Montfort  in  such  beauty.  Ah,  here  comes  my  lord !  " 

Mrs.  Crane  heard  and  looked  forth  again.  A  dozen  or  more 
gentlemen  on  horseback  rode  slowly  up  the  street;  which  of 
these  was  Lord  Montfort?  —  not  difficult  to  distinguish.  As 
the  bystanders  lifted  their  hats  to  the  cavalcade,  the  horse- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  288 

men  generally  returned  their  salutation  by  simply  touching 
their  own :  one  horseman  uncovered  wholly.  That  one  must 
be  the  Marquess,  the  greatest  man  in  those  parts,  with  lands 
stretching  away  on  either  side  that  town  for  miles  and  miles, 
—  a  territory  which  in  feudal  times  might  have  alarmed  a 
king.  He,  the  civilest,  must  be  the  greatest.  A  man  still 
young,  decidedly  good-looking,  wonderfully  well-dressed, 
wonderfully  well-mounted,  the  careless  ease  of  high  rank  in 
his  air  and  gesture.  To  the  superficial  gaze,  just  what  the 
great  Lord  of  Montfort  should  be.  Look  again !  In  that  fair 
face  is  there  not  something  that  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  florid 
period  which  contains  a  feeble  platitude?  —  something  in  its 
very  prettiness  that  betrays  a  weak  nature  and  a  sterile  mind? 

The  cavalcade  passed  away;  the  vans  and  the  wagons  again 
usurped  the  thoroughfare.  Arabella  Crane  left  the  window, 
and  approached  the  little  looking-glass  over  the  mantelpiece. 
She  gazed  upon  her  own  face  bitterly ;  she  was  comparing  it 
with  the  features  of  the  dazzling  marchioness. 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Jasper  Losely  sauntered  in, 
whistling  a  French  air,  and  flapping  the  dust  from  his  boots 
with  his  kid  glove. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  gayly.     "A  famous  day  of  it! " 

"You  have  won,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  in  a  tone  rather  of  dis- 
appointment than  congratulation. 

"Yes.  That  £100  of  Rugge's  has  been  the  making  of  me. 
I  only  wanted  a  capital  just  to  start  with! "  He  flung  him- 
self into  a  chair,  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  scrutinized  its 
contents.  "Guess,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "on  whose  horse  I 
won  these  two  rouleaiix  ?  Lord  Montfort's !  Ay,  and  I  saw 
my  lady ! " 

"So  did  I  see  her  from  this  window.  She  did  not  look 
happy!" 

"Not  happy!  — with  such  an  equipage, —  neatest  turn-out  I 
ever  set  eyes  on;  not  happy,  indeed!  I  had  half  a  mind  to 
ride  up  to  her  carriage  and  advance  a  claim  to  her  gratitude." 

"Gratitude?  Oh,  for  your  part  in  that  miserable  affair  of 
which  you  told  me?" 

"Not  a  miserable  affair  for  her;  but  certainly  7  never  got 


-84  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

any  good  from  it.     Trouble  for  nothing!     Basta!    No  use 
looking  back." 

"No  use;  but  who  can  help  it?"  said  Arabella  Crane,  sigh- 
ing heavily;  then,  as  if  eager  to  change  the  subject,  she  added 
abruptly,  "Mr.  Kugge  has  been  here  twice  this  morning, 
highly  excited:  the  child  will  not  act.  He  says  you  are 
bound  to  make  her  do  so ! " 

"Nonsense.  That  is  his  look-out.  /  see  after  children, 
indeed!" 

MRS.  CRANE  (with  a  visible  effort). — "Listen  to  me, 
Jasper  Losely.  I  have  no  reason  to  love  that  child,  as  you 
may  suppose.  But  now  that  you  so  desert  her,  I  think  I  feel 
compassion  for  her;  and  when  this  morning  I  raised  my  hand 
to  strike  her  for  her  stubborn  spirit,  and  saw  her  eyes  un- 
flinching, and  her  pale,  pale,  but  fearless  face,  my  arm  fell 
to  my  side  powerless.  She  will  not  take  to  this  life  without 
the  old  man.  She  will  waste  away  and  die." 

LOSELY.  —  "How  you  bother  me!  Are  you  serious?  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

MRS.  CRANE.  —  "  You  have  won  money  you  say ;  revoke  the 
contract;  pay  Rugge  back  his  £100.  He  is  disappointed  in 
his  bargain;  he  will  take  the  money." 

LOSELY.  —  "I  dare  say  he  will  indeed !  No :  I  have  won 
to-day,  it  is  true,  but  I  may  lose  to-morrow;  and  besides  I 
am  in  want  of  so  many  things :  when  one  gets  a  little  money, 
one  has  an  immediate  necessity  for  more  —  ha!  ha!  Still  I 
would  not  have  the  child  die;  and  she  may  grow  up  to  be  of 
use.  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do ;  if,  when  the  races  are  over, 
I  find  I  have  gained  enough  to  afford  it,  I  will  see  about 
buying  her  off.  But  £100  is  too  much!  Rugge  ought  to  take 
half  the  money,  or  a  quarter,  because,  if  she  don't  act,  I 
suppose  she  does  eat." 

Odious  as  the  man's  words  were,  he  said  them  with  a  laugh 
that  seemed  to  render  them  less  revolting, —  the  laugh  of  a 
very  handsome  mouth,  showing  teeth  still  brilliantly  white. 
More  comely  than  usual  that  day,  for  he  was  in  great  good- 
humour:  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  that  a  man  with  so  health- 
ful and  fair  an  exterior  was  really  quite  rotten  at  heart. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  285 

"  Your  own  young  laugh, "  said  Arabella  Crane,  almost  ten- 
derly. "I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  this  day  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  less  old, —  altered  though  I  be  in  face  and  mind.  I 
have  allowed  myself  to  pity  that  child;  while  I  speak,  I  can 
pity  you.  Yes!  pity, —  when  I  think  of  what  you  were. 
Must  you  go  on  thus?  To  what!  Jasper  Losely,"  she  con- 
tinued, sharply,  eagerly,  clasping  her  hands,  "hear  me:  I 
have  an  income,  not  large,  it  is  true,  but  assured;  you  have 
nothing  but  what,  as  you  say,  you  may  lose  to-morrow ;  share 
my  income !  Fulfil  your  solemn  promises ;  marry  me.  I  will 
forget  whose  daughter  that  girl  is ;  I  will  be  a  mother  to  her. 
And  for  yourself,  give  me  the  right  to  feel  for  you  again  as  I 
once  did,  and  I  may  find  a  way  to  raise  you  yet, —  higher 
than  you  can  raise  yourself.  I  have  some  wit,  Jasper,  as  you 
know.  At  the  worst  you  shall  have  the  pastime,  I  the  toil. 
In  your  illness  I  will  nurse  you :  in  your  joys  I  will  intrude 
no  share.  Whom  else  can  you  marry?  to  whom  else  could 
you  confide?  who  else  could  — " 

She  stopped  short  as  if  an  adder  had  stung  her,  uttering  a 
shriek  of  rage,  of  pain ;  for  Jasper  Losely,  who  had  hitherto 
listened  to  her,  stupefied,  astounded,  here  burst  into  a  fit  of 
merriment,  in  which  there  was  such  undisguised  contempt, 
such  an  enjoyment  of  the  ludicrous,  provoked  by  the  idea  of 
the  marriage  pressed  upon  him,  that  the  insult  pierced  the 
woman  to  her  very  soul. 

Continuing  his  laugh,  despite  that  cry  of  wrathful  agony  it 
had  caused,  Jasper  rose,  holding  his  sides,  and  surveying 
himself  in  the  glass,  with  very  different  feelings  at  the  sight 
from  those  that  had  made  his  companion's  gaze  there  a  few 
minutes  before  so  mournful. 

"My  dear  good  friend,"  he  said,  composing  himself  at  last, 
and  wiping  his  eyes,  "excuse  me,  but  really  when  you  said 
whom  else  could  I  marry  —  ha!  ha!  —  it  did  seem  such  a 
capital  joke!  Marry  you,  my  fair  Crane!  No:  put  that 
idea  out  of  your  head ;  we  know  each  other  too  well  for  con- 
jugal felicity.  You  love  me  now:  you  always  did,  and  al- 
ways will;  that  is,  while  we  are  not  tied  to  each  other. 
Women  who  once  love  me,  always  love  me;  can't  help  them- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

selves.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  except  that  I  am  what 
they  call  a  villain!  Ha!  the  clock  striking  seven:  I  dine 
with  a  set  of  fellows  I  have  picked  up  on  the  race-ground ; 
they  don't  know  me,  nor  I  them;  we  shall  be  better  ac- 
quainted after  the  third  bottle.  Cheer  up,  Crane:  go  and 
scold  Sophy,  and  make  her  act  if  you  can;  if  not,  scold 
Rugge  into  letting  her  alone.  Scold  somebody ;  nothing  like 
it,  to  keep  other  folks  quiet,  and  one's  self  busy.  Adieu! 
and  pray,  no  more  matrimonial  solicitations:  they  frighten 
me !  Gad, "  added  Losely,  as  he  banged  the  door,  "  such  over- 
tures would  frighten  Old  Nick  himself!  " 

Did  Arabella  Crane  hear  those  last  words, —  or  had  she  not 
heard  enough?  If  Losely  had  turned  and  beheld  her  face, 
would  it  have  startled  back  his  trivial  laugh?  Possibly;  but 
it  would  have  caused  only  a  momentary  uneasiness.  If  Alecto 
herself  had  reared  over  him  her  brow  horrent  with  vipers, 
Jasper  Losely  would  have  thought  he  had  only  to  look  hand- 
some and  say  coaxingly,  "Alecto,  my  dear,"  and  the  Fury 
would  have  pawned  her  head-dress  to  pay  his  washing-bill. 

After  all,  in  the  face  of  the  grim  woman  he  had  thus  so 
wantonly  incensed,  there  was  not  so  much  menace  as  resolve. 
And  that  resolve  was  yet  more  shown  in  the  movement  of  the 
hands  than  in  the  aspect  of  the  countenance ;  those  hands  — 
lean,  firm,  nervous  hands  —  slowly  expanded,  then  as  slowly 
clenched,  as  if  her  own  thought  had  taken  substance,  and  she 
was  locking  it  in  a  clasp  —  tightly,  tightly  —  never  to  be 
loosened  till  the  pulse  was  still. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  287 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  most  submissive  where  they  love  may  be  the  most  stubborn  where  they 
do  not  love.  —  Sophy  is  stubborn  to  Mr.  Rugge.  —  That  injured  man  sum- 
mons to  his  side  Mrs.  Crane,  imitating  the  policy  of  those  potentates  who 
would  retrieve  the  failures  of  force  by  the  successes  of  diplomacy. 

MB.  RUGGE  has  obtained  his  object.  But  now  comes  the 
question,  "What  will  he  do  with  it?"  Question  with  as 
many  heads  as  the  Hydra;  and  no  sooner  does  an  author  dis- 
pose of  one  head  than  up  springs  another. 

Sophy  has  been  bought  and  paid  for :  she  is  now,  legally, 
Mr.  Rugge's  property.  But  there  was  a  wise  peer  who  once 
bought  Punch :  Punch  became  his  property,  and  was  brought 
in  triumph  to  his  lordship's  house.  To  my  lord's  great  dis- 
may, Punch  would  not  talk.  To  Rugge's  great  dismay,  Sophy 
would  not  act. 

Rendered  up  to  Jasper  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane,  they  had 
lost  not  an  hour  in  removing  her  from  Gatesboro'  and  its 
neighbourhood.  They  did  not,  however,  go  back  to  the  vil- 
lage in  which  they  had  left  Rugge,  but  returned  straight  to 
London,  and  wrote  to  the  manager  to  join  them  there. 

Sophy,  once  captured,  seemed  stupefied:  she  evinced  no 
noisy  passion;  she  made  no  violent  resistance.  When  she 
was  told  to  love  and  obey  a  father  in  Jasper  Losely,  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face ;  then  turned  them  away,  and  shook  her 
head  mute  and  credulous.  That  man  her  father !  she  did  not 
believe  it.  Indeed,  Jasper  took  no  pains  to  convince  her  of 
the  relationship  or  win  her  attachment.  He  was  not  unkindly 
rough:  he  seemed  wholly  indifferent;  probably  he  was  so. 
For  the  ruling  vice  of  the  man  was  in  his  egotism.  It  was 
not  so  much  that  he  had  bad  principles  and  bad  feelings,  as 
that  he  had  no  principles  and  no  feelings  at  all,  except  as  they 
began,  continued,  and  ended  in  that  system  of  centralization 
which  not  more  paralyzes  healthful  action  in  a  State  than  it 


288  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

does  in  the  individual  man.  Self-indulgence  with  him  was 
absolute.  He  was  not  without  power  of  keen  calculation,  not 
without  much  cunning.  He  could  conceive  a  project  for  some 
gain  far  off  in  the  future,  and  concoct,  for  its  realization, 
schemes  subtly  woven,  astutely  guarded.  But  he  could  not 
secure  their  success  by  any  long-sustained  sacrifices  of  the 
caprice  of  one  hour  or  the  indolence  of  the  next.  If  it  had 
been  a  great  object  to  him  for  life  to  win  Sophy's  filial  affec- 
tion, he  would  not  have  bored  himself  for  five  minutes  each 
day  to  gain  that  object.  Besides,  he  had  just  enough  of 
shame  to  render  him  uneasy  at  the  sight  of  the  child  he  had 
deliberately  sold.  So  after  chucking  her  under  the  chin,  and 
telling  her  to  be  a  good  girl  and  be  grateful  for  all  that  Mrs. 
Crane  had  done  for  her  and  meant  still  to  do,  he  consigned 
her  almost  solely  to  that  lady's  care. 

When  Rugge  arrived,  and  Sophy  was  informed  of  her  in- 
tended destination,  she  broke  silence, — her  colour  went  and 
came  quickly, —  she  declared,  folding  her  arms  upon  her 
breast,  that  she  would  never  act  if  separated  from  her  grand- 
father. Mrs.  Crane,  struck  by  her  manner,  suggested  to  Rugge 
that  it  might  be  as  well,  now  that  she  was  legally  secured  to 
the  manager,  to  humour  her  wish  and  re-engage  Waife. 
Whatever  the  tale  with  which,  in  order  to  obtain  Sophy  from 
the  Mayor,  she  had  turned  that  worthy  magistrate's  mind 
against  the  Comedian,  she  had  not  gratified  Mr.  Rugge  by  a 
similar  confidence  to  him.  To  him  she  said  nothing  which 
might  operate  against  renewing  engagements  with  Waife,  if 
he  were  so  disposed.  But  Rugge  had  no  faith  in  a  child's 
firmness,  and  he  had  a  strong  spite  against  Waife,  so  he  ob- 
stinately refused.  He  insisted,  however,  as  a  peremptory 
condition  of  the  bargain,  that  Mr.  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane 
should  accompany  him  to  the  town  to  which  he  had  trans- 
ferred his  troupe,  both  in  order  by  their  presence  to  confirm 
his  authority  over  Sophy,  and  to  sanction  his  claim  to  her, 
should  Waife  reappear  and  dispute  it.  For  Rugge's  profes- 
sion being  scarcely  legitimate  and  decidedly  equivocal,  his 
right  to  bring  up  a  female  child  to  the  same  calling  might  be 
called  into  question  before  a  magistrate,  and  necessitate  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  289 

production  of  her  father  in  order  to  substantiate  the  special 
contract.  In  return,  the  manager  handsomely  offered  to  Mr. 
Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  to  pay  their  expenses  in  the  excur- 
sion,—  a  liberality  haughtily  rejected  by  Mrs.  Crane  for  her- 
self, though  she  agreed  at  her  own  charge  to  accompany 
Losely  if  he  decided  on  complying  with  the  manager's  re- 
quest. Losely  at  first  raised  objections,  but  hearing  that 
there  would  be  races  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  having  a  pe- 
culiar passion  for  betting  and  all  kinds  of  gambling,  as  well 
as  an  ardent  desire  to  enjoy  his  £100  in  so  fashionable  a 
manner,  he  consented  to  delay  his  return  to  the  Continent, 
and  attend  Arabella  Crane  to  the  provincial  Elis.  Rugge 
carried  off  Sophy  to  her  fellow  "orphans." 

AND  SOPHY  WOULD  NOT  ACT! 

In  vain  she  was  coaxed;  in  vain  she  was  threatened;  in  vain 
she  was  deprived  of  food ;  in  vain  shut  up  in  a  dark  hole ;  in 
vain  was  the  lash  held  over  her.  Rugge,  tyrant  though  he 
was,  did  not  suffer  the  lash  to  fall.  His  self-restraint  there 
might  be  humanity, —  might  be  fear  of  the  consequences; 
for  the  state  of  her  health  began  to  alarm  him.  She  might 
die ;  there  might  be  an  inquest.  He  wished  now  that  he  had 
taken  Mrs.  Crane's  suggestion,  and  re-engaged  Waife.  But 
where  was  Waife?  Meanwhile  he  had  advertised  the  young 
Phenomenon;  placarded  the  walls  with  the  name  of  Juliet 
Araminta;  got  up  the  piece  of  the  Remorseless  Baron,  with  a 
new  rock-scene.  Waife  had  had  nothing  to  say  in  that 
drama,  so  any  one  could  act  his  part. 

The  first  performance  was  announced  for  that  night:  there 
would  be  such  an  audience!  the  best  seats  even  now  pre-en- 
gaged; first  night  of  the  race-week.  The  clock  had  struck 
seven;  the  performance  began  at  eight.  AND  SOPHY  WOULD 
NOT  ACT! 

The  child  was  seated  in  a  space  that  served  for  the  green- 
room, behind  the  scenes.  The  whole  company  had  been  con- 
vened to  persuade  or  shame  her  out  of  her  obstinacy.  The 
king's  lieutenant,  the  seductive  personage  of  the  troupe,  was 
on  one  knee  to  her,  like  a  lover.  He  was  accustomed  to 
lovers'  parts,  both  on  the  stage  and  off  it.  Off  it,  he  had  one 

VOL.  I.  —  19 


290  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

favoured  phrase,  hackneyed,  but  effective.  "You  are  too 
pretty  to  be  so  cruel."  Thrice  he  now  repeated  that  phrase, 
with  a  simper  between  each  repetition  that  might  have  melted 
a  heart  of  stone.  Behind  Sophy's  chair,  and  sticking  calico- 
flowers  into  the  child's  tresses,  stood  the  senior  matron  of  the 
establishment, — not  a  bad  sort  of  woman, —  who  kept  the 
dresses,  nursed  the  sick,  revered  Rugge,  told  fortunes  on  a 
pack  of  cards  which  she  always  kept  in  her  pocket,  and  acted 
occasionally  in  parts  where  age  was  no  drawback  and  ugliness 
desirable, —  such  as  a  witch,  or  duenna,  or  whatever  in  the 
dialogue  was  poetically  called  "Hag."  Indeed,  Hag  was  the 
name  she  usually  took  from  Rugge ;  that  which  she  bore  from 
her  defunct  husband  was  Gormerick.  This  lady,  as  she  braided 
the  garland,  was  also  bent  on  the  soothing  system,  saying, 
with  great  sweetness,  considering  that  her  mouth  was  full  of 
pins,  "Now,  deary,  now,  dovey,  look  at  ooself  in  the  glass; 
we  could  beat  oo,  and  pinch  oo,  and  stick  pins  into  oo,  dovey, 
but  we  won't.  Dovey  will  be  good,  I  know ; "  and  a  great 
patch  of  rouge  came  on  the  child's  pale  cheeks.  The  clown 
therewith,  squatting  before  her  with  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
grinned  lustily,  and  shrieked  out,  "My  eyes,  what  a  beauty! " 

Rugge,  meanwhile,  one  hand  thrust  in  his  bosom,  contem- 
plated the  diplomatic  efforts  of  his  ministers,  and  saw,  by 
Sophy's  compressed  lips  and  unwinking  eyes,  that  their  cajol- 
eries were  unsuccessful.  He  approached  and  hissed  into  her 
ear,  "Don't  madden  me!  don't!  you  will  act,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Sophy,  suddenly  rising;  and  tearing  the  wreath 
from  her  hair,  she  set  her  small  foot  on  it  with  force.  "No, 
not  if  you  kill  me ! " 

"Gods!"  faltered  Rugge.  "And  the  sum  I  have  paid!  I 
am  diddled!  Who  has  gone  for  Mrs.  Crane?" 

"Tom,"  said  the  clown. 

The  word  was  scarcely  out  of  the  clown's  mouth  ere  Mrs. 
Crane  herself  emerged  from  a  side  scene,  and,  putting  off  her 
bonnet,  laid  both  hands  on  the  child's  shoulders,  and  looked 
her  in  the  face  without  speaking.  The  child  as  firmly  re- 
turned the  gaze.  Give  that  child  a  martyr's  cause,  and  in 
that  frail  body  there  would  have  been  a  martyr's  soul.  Ara- 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  291 

bella  Crane,  not  inexperienced  in  children,  recognized  a  power 
of  will  stronger  than  the  power  of  brute  force,  in  that  tran- 
quillity of  eye,  the  spark  of  calm  light  in  its  tender  blue, — 
blue,  pure  as  the  sky;  light,  steadfast  as  the  star. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  all  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Crane.  "I  will 
take  her  to  your  private  room,  Mr.  Rugge;"  and  she  led  the 
child  away  to  a  sort  of  recess,  room  it  could  not  be  rightly 
called,  fenced  round  with  boxes  and  crates,  and  containing 
the  manager's  desk  and  two  stools. 

"Sophy,"  then  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you  say  you  will  not  act 
unless  your  grandfather  be  with  you.  Now,  hear  me.  You 
know  that  I  have  been  always  stern  and  hard  with  you.  I 
never  professed  to  love  you, —  nor  do  I.  But  you  have  not 
found  me  untruthful.  When  I  say  a  thing  seriously,  as  I  am 
speaking  now,  you  may  believe  me.  Act  to-night,  and  1  will 
promise  you  faithfully  that  I  will  either  bring  your  grand- 
father here,  or  I  will  order  it  so  that  you  shall  be  restored 
to  him.  If  you  refuse,  I  make  no  threat,  but  I  shall  leave 
this  place;  and  my  belief  is  that  you  will  be  your  grand- 
father's death." 

"His  death!  his  death!  .1!" 

"By  first  dying  yourself.  Oh,  you  smile;  you  think  it 
would  be  happiness  to  die.  What  matter  that  the  old  man 
you  profess  to  care  for  is  broken-hearted !  Brat,  leave  selfish- 
ness to  boys :  you  are  a  girl !  suffer !  " 

"Selfish!"  murmured  Sophy,  "selfish!  that  was  said  of  me 
before.  Selfish!  ah,  I  understand.  No,  I  ought  not  to  wish 
to  die:  what  would  become  of  him?  "  She  fell  on  her  knees, 
and  raising  both  her  clasped  hands,  prayed  inly,  silently, — 
an  instant,  not  more.  She  rose.  "  If  I  do  act,  then, —  it  is  a 
promise :  you  will  keep  it.  I  shall  see  him :  he  shall  know 
where  I  am;  we  shall  meet!" 

"A  promise, —  sacred.  I  will  keep  it.  Oh,  girl,  how  much 
you  will  love  some  day!  how  your  heart  will  ache!  and  when 
you  are  my  age,  look  at  that  heart,  then  at  your  glass ;  per- 
haps you  may  be,  within  and  without,  like  me." 

Sophy,  innocent  Sophy,  stared,  awe-stricken,  but  uncom- 
prehending; Mrs.  Crane  led  her  back  passive. 


292  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"  There,  she  will  act.  Put  on  the  wreath.  Trick  her  out. 
Hark  ye,  Mr.  Rugge.  This  is  for  one  night.  I  have  made 
conditions  with  her:  either  you  must  take  back  her  grand- 
father, or  —  she  must  return  to  him." 

"And  my  £100?" 

"In  the  latter  case  ought  to  be  repaid  to  you." 

"Am  I  never  to  have  the  Royal  York  Theatre?  Ambition  of 
my  life,  ma'am.  Dreamed  of  it  thrice !  Ha!  but  she  will  act; 
and  succeed.  But  to  take  back  the  old  vagabond, —  a  bitter 
pill.  He  shall  halve  it  with  me !  Ma'am,  I  'm  your  grateful  —  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THREADBARE  is  the  simile  which  compares  the  world  to  a  stage.  Schiller,  less 
complimentary  than  Shakspeare,  lowers  the  illustration  from  a  stage  to  a 
puppet-show.  But  ever  between  realities  and  shows  there  is  a  secret  com- 
munication, an  undetected  interchange,  —  sometimes  a  stern  reality  in  the 
heart  of  the  ostensible  actor,  a  fantastic  stage-play  in  the  brain  of  the  un- 
noticed spectator.  The  bandit's  child  on  the  proscenium  is  still  poor  little 
Sophy,  in  spite  of  garlands  and  rouge.  But  that  honest  rough-looking  fellow 
to  whom,  in  respect  for  services  to  sovereign  and  country,  the  apprentice 
yields  way,  may  he  not  be  —  the  crafty  Comedian1? 

TABAN-TAEANTABA!  rub-a-dub-dub!  play  up  horn!  roll 
drum!  a  quarter  to  eight;  and  the  crowd  already  thick  before 
Rugge's  Grand  Exhibition, — "  Remorseless  Baron  and  Bandit's 
Child!  Young  Phenomenon, — Juliet  Araminta, — Patronized 
by  the  Nobility  in  general,  and  expecting  daily  to  be  sum- 
moned to  perform  before  the  Queen, —  Vivat  Reyina  !  "  —  Rub- 
a-dub-dub!  The  company  issue  from  the  curtain,  range  in 
front  of  the  proscenuim.  Splendid  dresses.  The  Phenomenon ! 
—  'tis  she! 

"  My  eyes,  there  's  a  beauty !  "  cries  the  clown. 

The  days  have  already  grown  somewhat  shorter;  but  it  is 
not  yet  dusk.  How  charmingly  pretty  she  still  is,  despite 
that  horrid  paint;  but  how  wasted  those  poor  bare  snowy 
arms! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  293 

A  most  doleful  lugubrious  dirge  mingles  with  the  drum  and 
horn.  A  man  has  forced  his  way  close  by  the  stage, —  a  man 
with  a  confounded  cracked  hurdy-gurdy.  Whine!  whine! 
creaks  the  hurdy-gurdy.  "Stop  that!  stop  that  mu-zeek!" 
cries  a  delicate  apprentice,  clapping  his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"Pity  a  poor  blind  — "  answers  the  man  with  the  hurdy- 
gurdy. 

"Oh,  you  are  blind,  are  you?  but  we  are  not  deaf.  There  's 
a  penny  not  to  play.  What  black  thing  have  you  got  there 
by  a  string?" 

"  My  dog,  sir !  " 

"Deuced  ugly  one;  not  like  a  dog;  more  like  a  bear  with 
horns ! " 

"I  say,  master,"  cries  the  clown,  "here 's  a  blind  man  come 
to  see  the  Phenomenon!  " 

The  crowd  laugh;  they  make  way  for  the  blind  man's  black 
dog.  They  suspect,  from  the  clown's  address,  that  the  blind 
man  has  something  to  do  with  the  company. 

You  never  saw  two  uglier  specimens  of  their  several  species 
than  the  blind  man  and  his  black  dog.  He  had  rough  red 
hair  and  a  red  beard,  his  face  had  a  sort  of  twist  that  made 
every  feature  seem  crooked.  His  eyes  were  not  bandaged, 
but  the  lids  were  closed,  and  he  lifted  them  up  piteously  as  if 
seeking  for  light.  He  did  not  seem,  however,  like  a  common 
beggar :  had  rather  the  appearance  of  a  reduced  sailor.  Yes, 
you  would  have  bet  ten  to  one  he  had  been  a  sailor;  not  that 
his  dress  belonged  to  that  noble  calling,  but  his  build,  the  roll 
of  his  walk,  the  tie  of  his  cravat,  a  blue  anchor  tattooed  on 
that  great  brown  hand :  certainly  a  sailor ;  a  British  tar !  poor 
man. 

The  dog  was  hideous  enough  to  have  been  exhibited  as  a 
lusus  natures;  evidently  very  aged, —  for  its  face  and  ears 
were  gray,  the  rest  of  it  a  rusty  reddish  black;  it  had  im- 
mensely long  ears,  pricked  up  like  horns;  it  was  a  dog  that 
must  have  been  brought  from  foreign  parts;  it  might  have 
come  from  Acheron,  sire  by  Cerberus,  so  portentous,  and  (if 
not  irreverent  the  epithet)  so  infernal  was  its  aspect,  with 
that  gray  face,  those  antlered  ears,  and  its  ineffably  weird 


294  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

demeanour  altogether.  A  big  dog,  too,  and  evidently  a  strong 
one.  All  prudent  folks  would  have  made  way  for  a  man  led 
by  that  dog.  Whine  creaked  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and  bow-wow 
all  of  a  sudden  barked  the  dog.  Sophy  stifled  a  cry,  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  breast,  and  such  a  ray  of  joy  flashed  over  her 
face  that  it  would  have  warmed  your  heart  for  a  month  to 
have  seen  it. 

But  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Author,  that  that  British  tar 
(gallant,  no  doubt,  but  hideous)  is  Gentleman  Waife,  or  that 
Stygian  animal  the  snowy-curled  Sir  Isaac? 

Upon  my  word,  when  I  look  at  them  myself,  I,  the  Histo- 
rian, am  puzzled.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that  bow-bow,  I  am 
sure  Sophy  would  not  have  suspected.  Taratarantara!  Walk 
in,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk  in;  the  performance  is  about 
to  commence!  Sophy  lingers  last. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  blind  man,  who  had  been  talking  to  the 
apprentice,  "yes,  sir,"  said  he,  loud  and  emphatically,  as  if 
his  word  had  been  questioned.  "The  child  was  snowed  up, 
but  luckily  the  window  of  the  hut  was  left  open :  exactly  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  dog  came  to  the  window, 
set  up  a  howl,  and  — " 

Sophy  could  hear  no  more  —  led  away  behind  the  curtain 
by  the  King's  Lieutenant.  But  she  had  heard  enough  to  stir 
her  heart  with  an  emotion  that  set  all  the  dimples  round  her 
lip  into  undulating  play. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
A  SHAH  carries  off  a  reality. 

AND  she  did  act,  and  how  charmingly !  with  what  glee  and 
what  gusto !  Rugge  was  beside  himself  with  pride  and  rap- 
ture. He  could  hardly  perform  his  own  Baronial  part  for  ad- 
miration. The  audience,  a  far  choicer  and  more  fastidious 
one  than  that  in  the  Surrey  village,  was  amazed,  enthusiastic. 

"  I  shall  live  to  see  my  dream  come  true !  I  shall  have  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  295 

great  York  theatre !  "  said  Kugge,  as  he  took  off  his  wig  and 
laid  his  head  on  his  pillow.  "Restore  her  for  the  £100!  not 
for  thousands !  " 

Alas,  my  sweet  Sophy,  alas!  Has  not  the  joy  that  made 
thee  perform  so  well  undone  thee?  Ah,  hadst  thou  but  had 
the  wit  to  act  horribly,  and  be  hissed! 

"  Uprose  the  sun  and  uprose  Baron  Rugge." 

Not  that  ordinarily  he  was  a  very  early  man;  but  his  ex- 
citement broke  his  slumbers.  He  had  taken  up  his  quarters 
on  the  ground-floor  of  a  small  lodging-house  close  to  his  ex- 
hibition; in  the  same  house  lodged  his  senior  matron,  and 
Sophy  herself.  Mrs.  Gormerick,  being  ordered  to  watch  the 
child  and  never  lose  sight  of  her,  slept  in  the  same  room  with 
Sophy,  in  the  upper  story  of  the  house.  The  old  woman, 
served  Rugge  for  housekeeper,  made  his  tea,  grilled  his  chop, 
and  for  company's  sake  shared  his  meals.  Excitement  as 
often  sharpens  the  appetite  as  takes  it  away.  Rugge  had 
supped  on  hope,  and  he  felt  a  craving  for  a  more  substantial 
breakfast.  Accordingly,  when  he  had  dressed,  he  thrust  his 
head  into  the  passage,  and  seeing  there  the  maid-of-all-work 
unbarring  the  street-door,  bade  her  go  upstairs  and  wake  the 
Hag,  that  is,  Mrs.  Gormerick.  Saying  this  he  extended  a 
key;  for  he  ever  took  the  precaution,  before  retiring  to  rest, 
to  lock  the  door  of  the  room  to  which  Sophy  was  consigned 
on  the  outside,  and  guard  the  key  till  the  next  morning. 

The  maid  nodded,  and  ascended  the  stairs.  Less  time  than 
he  expected  passed  away  before  Mrs.  Gormerick  made  her  ap- 
pearance, her  gray  hair  streaming  under  her  nightcap,  her 
form  indued  in  a  loose  wrapper, — her  very  face  a  tragedy. 

"Powers  above!  What  has  happened?"  exclaimed  Rugge, 
prophetically. 

"She  is  gone,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Gormerick;  and,  seeing  the 
lifted  arm  and  clenched  fist  of  the  manager,  prudently  fainted 
away. 


296  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
COROLLARIES  from  the  problems  suggested  in  chapters  VI.  and  VII. 

BROAD  daylight,  nearly  nine  o'clock  indeed,  and  Jasper 
Losely  is  walking  back  to  his  inn  from  the  place  at  which  he 
had  dined  the  evening  before.  He  has  spent  the  night  drink- 
ing, gambling,  and  though  he  looks  heated,  there  is  no  sign 
of  fatigue.  Nature,  in  wasting  on  this  man  many  of  her  most 
glorious  elements  of  happiness,  had  not  forgotten  an  herculean 
constitution, — always  restless  and  never  tired,  always  drink- 
ing and  never  drunk.  Certainly  it  is  some  consolation  to  deli- 
cate invalids  that  it  seldom  happens  that  the  sickly  are  very 
wicked.  Criminals  are  generally  athletic;  constitution  and 
conscience  equally  tough;  large  backs  to  their  heads;  strong 
'  suspensorial  muscles ;  digestions  that  save  them  from  the 
overfine  nerves  of  the  virtuous.  The  native  animal  must  be 
vigorous  in  the  human  being,  when  the  moral  safeguards  are 
daringly  overleapt.  Jasper  was  not  alone,  but  with  an  ac- 
quaintance he  had  made  at  the  dinner,  and  whom  he  invited 
to  his  inn  to  breakfast;  they  were  walking  familiarly  arm-in- 
arm.  Very  unlike  the  brilliant  Losely, — a  young  man  under 
tliirty,  who  seemed  to  have  washed  out  all  the  colours  of 
youth  in  dirty  water.  His  eyes  dull,  their  whites  yellow; 
his  complexion  sodden.  His  form  was  thickset  and  heavy; 
his  features  pug,  with  a  cross  of  the  bull-dog.  In  dress,  a 
specimen  of  the  flash  style  of  sporting  man,  as  exhibited  on 
the  Turf,  or  more  often  perhaps  in  the  Ring;  Belcher  neck- 
cloth, with  an  immense  pin  representing  a  jockey  at  full  gal- 
lop; cut-away  coat,  corduroy  breeches,  and  boots  with  tops  of 
a  chalky  white.  Yet,  withal,  not  the  air  and  walk  of  a  gen- 
uine born  and  bred  sporting  man,  even  of  the  vulgar  order. 
Something  about  him  which  reveals  the  pretender.  A 
would-be  hawk  with  a  pigeon's  liver,  —  a  would-be  sportsman 
with  a  Cockney's  nurture. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  297 

Samuel  Adolphus  Poole  is  an  orphan  of  respectable  connec- 
tions.    His  future  expectations  chiefly  rest  on  an  uncle  from 
whom,  as  godfather,  he  takes  the  loathed  name  of  Samuel. 
He  prefers  to  sign  himself  Adolphus ;  he  is  popularly  styled 
Dolly.     For  his  present  existence  he  relies  ostensibly  on  his 
salary  as  an  assistant  in  the  house  of  a  London  tradesman  in 
a  fashionable  way  of  business.     Mr.  Latham,  his  employer, 
has  made  a  considerable  fortune,   less  by  his  shop  than  by 
discounting  the  bills  of  his  customers,  or  of  other  borrowers 
whom  the  loan  draws  into  the  net  of  the  custom.    Mr.  Latham 
connives   at  the  sporting  tastes  of  Dolly  Poole.     Dolly  has 
often  thus  been  enabled  to  pick  up  useful  pieces  of  informa- 
tion as  to  the  names  and  repute  of  such  denizens  of  the  sport- 
ing world  as   might  apply   to   Mr.    Latham   for  temporary 
accommodation.     Dolly  Poole  has  many  sporting  friends ;  he 
has  also  many  debts.    He  has  been  a  dupe,  he  is  now  a  rogue ; 
but  he  wants  decision  of  character  to  put  into  practice  many 
valuable  ideas  that  his  experience  of  dupe  and  his  develop- 
ment into  rogue  suggest  to  his  ambition.    Still,  however,  now 
and  then,  wherever  a  shabby  trick  can  be  safely  done,  he  is 
what  he  calls  "lucky."     He  has  conceived  a  prodigious  admi- 
ration for  Jasper  Losely,  one  cause  for  which  will  be  ex- 
plained in  the  dialogue  about  to  be  recorded;  another  cause 
for  which  is  analogous  to  that  loving  submission  with  which 
some  ill-conditioned  brute  acknowledges  a  master  in  the  hand 
that  has  thrashed  it.     For  at  Losely's  first  appearance  at  the 
convivial  meeting  just  concluded,  being  nettled  at  the  impe- 
rious airs  of  superiority  which  that  roysterer  assumed,  mis- 
taking for  effeminacy  Jasper's  elaborate  dandyism,  and  not 
recognizing  in  the  bravo's  elegant  proportions  the  tiger-like 
strength  of  which,  in  truth,  that  tiger-like  suppleness  should 
have  warned  him,  Dolly  Poole  provoked  a  quarrel,  and  being 
himself  a  stout  fellow,  nor  unaccustomed  to  athletic  exercises, 
began  to  spar ;  the  next  moment  he  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  full  sprawl  on  the  floor;    and  two  minutes  after- 
wards, the  quarrel  made  up  by  conciliating  banqueters,  with 
every  bone  in  his  skin  seeming  still  to  rattle,  he  was  gener- 
ously blubbering  out  that  he  never  bore  malice,  and  shaking 


298  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

hands  with  Jasper  Losely  as  if  he  had  found  a  benefactor. 
But  now  to  the  dialogue. 

JASPER.  —  "  Yes,  Poole,  my  hearty,  as  you  say,  that  fellow 
trumping  my  best  club  lost  me  the  last  rubber.  There 's  no 
certainty  in  whist,  if  one  has  a  spoon  for  a  partner." 

POOLE.  — "  No  certainty  in  every  rubber,  but  next  to  cer- 
tainty in  the  long  run,  when  a  man  plays  as  well  as  you  do, 
Mr.  Losely.  Your  winnings  to-night  must  have  been  pretty 
large,  though  you  had  a  bad  partner  almost  every  hand ;  pretty 
large,  eh?" 

JASPER  (carelessly). —  "  Nothing  to  talk  of, —  a  few  ponies !  " 

POOLE.  — "More  than  a  few;  I  should  know." 

JASPER. — "Why?  You  did  not  play  after  the  first 
rubber." 

POOLE.  —  "  No,  when  I  saw  your  play  on  that  first  rubber, 
I  cut  out,  and  bet  on  you;  and  very  grateful  to  you  I  am. 
Still  you  would  win  more  with  a  partner  who  understood  your 
game." 

The  shrewd  Dolly  paused  a  moment,  and  leaning  signifi- 
cantly on  Jasper's  arm,  added,  in  a  half  whisper,  "I  do;  it  is 
a  French  one." 

Jasper  did  not  change  colour,  but  a  quick  rise  of  the  eye- 
brow, and  a  slight  jerk  of  the  neck,  betrayed  some  little  sur- 
prise or  uneasiness :  however,  he  rejoined  without  hesitation, 
"  French,  ay !  In  France  there  is  more  dash  in  playing  out 
trumps  than  there  is  with  English  players." 

"And  with  a  player  like  you,"  said  Poole,  still  in  a  half 
whisper,  "more  trumps  to  play  out." 

Jasper  turned  round  sharp  and  short;  the  hard,  cruel  ex- 
pression of  his  mouth,  little  seen  of  late,  came  back  to  it. 
Poole  recoiled,  and  his  bones  began  again  to  ache.  "I  did 
not  mean  to  offend  you,  Mr.  Losely,  but  to  caution." 

"Caution!" 

"  There  were  two  knowing  coves,  who,  if  they  had  not  been 
so  drunk,  would  not  have  lost  their  money  without  a  row,  and 
they  would  have  seen  how  they  lost  it;  they  are  sharpers: 
you  served  them  right;  don't  be  angry  with  me.  You  want 
a  partner ;  so  do  I :  you  play  better  than  I  do,  but  I  play  well ; 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  299 

you  shall  have  two-thirds  of  our  winnings,  and  when  you  come 
to  town  I  '11  introduce  you  to  a  pleasant  set  of  young  fellows 
—  green." 

Jasper  mused  a  moment.  "  You  know  a  thing  or  two,  I  see, 
Master  Poole,  and  we  '11  discuss  the  whole  subject  after  break- 
fast. Ar'n't  you  hungry?  No!  lam!  Hillo!  who's  that?" 

His  arm  was  seized  by  Mr.  Rugge.  "She's  gone, — fled," 
gasped  the  manager,  breathless.  "Out  of  the  lattice;  fifteen 
feet  high;  not  dashed  to  pieces;  vanished." 

"Go  on  and  order  breakfast,"  said  Losely  to  Mr.  Poole, 
who  was  listening  too  inquisitively.  He  drew  the  manager 
away.  "Can't  you  keep  your  tongue  in  your  head  before 
strangers?  The  girl  is  gone?" 

"Out  of  the  lattice,  and  fifteen  feet  high! " 

"Any  sheets  left  hanging  out  of  the  lattice?" 

"Sheets!    No." 

"  Then  she  did  not  go  without  help :  somebody  must  have 
thrown  up  to  her  a  rope-ladder ;  nothing  so  easy ;  done  it  my- 
self scores  of  times  for  the  descent  of  'maids  who  love  the 
moon, '  Mr.  Kugge.  But  at  her  age  there  is  not  a  moon ;  at 
least  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  moon :  one  must  dismiss,  then, 
the  idea  of  a  rope-ladder, —  too  precocious.  But  are  you  quite 
sure  she  is  gone?  not  hiding  in  some  cupboard?  Sacref  — 
very  odd.  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Crane  about  it?" 

"Yes,  just  come  from  her;  she  thinks  that  villain  Waife 
must  have  stolen  her.  But  I  want  you,  sir,  to  come  with  me 
to  a  magistrate." 

"Magistrate!     I!  why?  nonsense;  set  the  police  to  work." 

"Your  deposition  that  she  is  your  lawful  child,  lawfully 
made  over  to  me,  is  necessary  for  the  inquisition;  I  mean 
police." 

"  Hang  it,  what  a  bother !  I  hate  magistrates,  and  all  be- 
longing to  them.  Well,  I  must  breakfast!  I'll  see  to  it 
afterwards.  Oblige  me  by  not  calling  Mr.  Waife  a  villain; 
good  old  fellow  in  his  way." 

"  Good !     Powers  above ! " 

"But  if  he  took  her  off,  how  did  he  get  at  her?  It  must 
have  been  preconcerted." 


300  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

"Ha!  true.  But  she  has  not  been  suffered  to  speak  to  a 
soul  not  in  the  company,  Mrs.  Crane  excepted." 

"Perhaps  at  the  performance  last  night  some  signal  was 
given?" 

"  But  if  Waif e  had  been  there  I  should  have  seen  him ;  my 
troupe  would  have  known  him :  such  a  remarkable  face ;  one 
eye  too." 

"  Well,  well,  do  what  you  think  best.  I  '11  call  on  you 
after  breakfast;  let  me  go  now.  Basta!  Basta!" 

Losely  wrenched  himself  from  the  manager,  and  strode  off 
to  the  inn;  then,  ere  joining  Poole,  he  sought  Mrs.  Crane. 

"This  going  before  a  magistrate,"  said  Losely,  "to  depose 
that  I  have  made  over  my  child  to  that  blackguard  showman 
—  in  this  town  too,  after  such  luck  as  I  have  had  and  where 
bright  prospects  are  opening  on  me  —  is  most  disagreeable. 
And  supposing,  when  we  have  traced  Sophy,  she  should  be 
really  with  the  old  man;  awkward!  In  short,  my  dear  friend, 
my  dear  Bella  "  (Losely  could  be  very  coaxing  when  it  was 
worth  his  while),  "you  just  manage  this  for  me.  I  have  a 
fellow  in  the  next  room  waiting  to  breakfast:  as  soon  as 
breakfast  is  over  I  shall  be  off  to  the  race-ground,  and  so 
shirk  that  ranting  old  bore ;  you  '11  call  on  him  instead,  and 
settle  it  somehow. "  He  was  out  of  the  room  before  she  could 
answer. 

Mrs.  Crane  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  soothe  the  infuriate 
manager  when  he  heard  Losely  was  gone  to  amuse  himself  at 
the  race-course.  Nor  did  she  give  herself  much  trouble  to 
pacify  Mr.  Rugge's  anger  or  assist  his  investigations.  Her 
interest  in  the  whole  affair  seemed  over.  Left  thus  to  his 
own  devices,  Rugge,  however,  began  to  institute  a  sharp,  and 
what  promised  to  be  an  effective,  investigation.  He  ascer- 
tained that  the  fugitive  certainly  had  not  left  by  the  railway 
or  by  any  of  the  public  conveyances ;  he  sent  scouts  over  all 
the  neighbourhood:  he  enlisted  the  sympathy  of  the  police, 
who  confidently  assured  him  that  they  had  "  a  network  over 
the  three  kingdoms."  Rugge's  suspicions  were  directed  to 
Waife:  he  could  collect,  however,  no  evidence  to  confirm 
them.  No  person  answering  to  Waife's  description  had  been 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  301 

seen  in  the  town.  Once,  indeed,  Rugge  was  close  on  the  right 
scent;  for,  insisting  upon  Waife's  one  eye,  and  his  possession 
of  a  white  dog,  he  was  told  by  several  witnesses  that  a  man  blind 
of  two  eyes,  and  led  by  a  black  dog,  had  been  close  before  the 
stage,  just  previous  to  the  performance.  But  then  the  clown 
had  spoken  to  that  very  man;  all  the  Thespian  company  had 
observed  him;  all  of  them  had  known  Waife  familiarly  for 
years ;  and  all  deposed  that  any  creature  more  unlike  to  Waife 
than  the  blind  man  could  not  be  turned  out  of  Nature's  work- 
shop. But  where  was  that  blind  man?  They  found  out  the 
wayside  inn  in  which  he  had  taken  a  lodging  for  the  night ; 
and  there  it  was  ascertained  that  he  had  paid  for  his  room 
beforehand,  stating  that  he  should  start  for  the  race-course 
early  in  the  morning.  Rugge  himself  set  out  to  the  race- 
course to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone, —  catch  Mr.  Losely, 
examine  the  blind  man  himself. 

He  did  catch  Mr.  Losely,  and  very  nearly  caught  some- 
thing else ;  for  that  gentleman  was  in  a  ring  of  noisy  horse- 
men, mounted  on  a  hired  hack,  and  loud  as  the  noisiest. 
When  Rugge  came  up  to  his  stirrup,  and  began  his  harangue, 
Losely  turned  his  hack  round  with  so  sudden  an  appliance 
of  bit  and  spur,  that  the  animal  lashed  out,  and  its  heel  went 
within  an  inch  of  the  manager's  cheek-bone.  Before  Rugge 
could  recover,  Losely  was  in  a  hand-gallop.  But  the  blind 
man!  Of  course  Rugge  did  not  find  him?  You  are  mistaken : 
he  did.  The  blind  man  was  there,  dog  and  all.  The  man- 
ager spoke  to  him,  and  did  not  know  him  from  Adam. 

Nor  have  you  or  I,  my  venerated  readers,  any  right  what- 
soever to  doubt  whether  Mr.  Rugge  could  be  so  stolidly  ob- 
tuse. Granting  that  blind  sailor  to  be  the  veritable  William 
Waife,  William  Waife  was  a  man  of  genius,  taking  pains  to 
appear  an  ordinary  mortal.  And  the  anecdotes  of  Munden, 
or  of  Bamfylde  Moore  Carew,  suffice  to  tell  us  how  Protean 
is  the  power  of  transformation  in  a  man  whose  genius  is  mim- 
etic. But  how  often  does  it  happen  to  us,  venerated  read- 
ers, not  to  recognize  a  man  of  genius,  even  when  he  takes  no 
particular  pains  to  escape  detection!  A  man  of  genius  may 
be  for  ten  years  our  next-door  neighbour;  he  may  dine  in 


302  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

company  with  us  twice  a  week;  his  face  may  be  as  familiar 
to  our  eyes  as  our  armchair;  his  voice  to  our  ears  as  the  click 
of  our  parlour-clock :  yet  we  are  never  more  astonished  than 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  some  bright  day,  it  is  discovered  that 
our  next-door  neighbour  is  —  a  man  of  genius.  Did  you  ever 
hear  tell  of  the  life  of  a  man  of  genius  but  what  there  were 
numerous  witnesses  who  deposed  to  the  fact,  that  until,  per- 
fidious dissembler!  he  flared  up  and  set  the  Thames  on  fire 
they  had  never  seen  anything  in  him ;  an  odd  creature,  per- 
haps a  good  creature, — probably  a  poor  creature, — but  a 
MAN  of  GENIUS  !  They  would  as  soon  have  suspected  him  of 
being  the  Khann  of  Tartary !  Nay,  candid  readers,  are  there 
not  some  of  you  who  refuse  to  the  last  to  recoguize  the  man 
of  genius,  till  he  has  paid  his  penny  to  Charon,  and  his  pass- 
port to  immortality  has  been  duly  examined  by  the  custom- 
house officers  of  Styx!  When  one  half  the  world  drag  forth 
that  same  next-door  neighbour,  place  him  on  a  pedestal,  and 
have  him  cried,  " Oyez !  Oyez!  Found  a  man  of  genius!  Pub- 
lic property !  open  to  inspection !  "  does  not  the  other  half  the 
world  pui/  on  its  spectacles,  turn  up  its  nose,  and  cry,  "  That 
a  man  of  genius,  indeed !  Pelt  him ! —  pelt  him !  "  Then  of 
course  there  is  a  clatter,  what  the  vulgar  call  "a  shindy," 
round  the  pedestal.  Squeezed  by  his  believers,  shied  at  by 
his  scoffers,  the  poor  man  gets  horribly  mauled  about,  and 
drops  from  the  perch  in  the  midst  of  the  row.  Then  they 
shovel  him  over,  clap  a  great  stone  on  his  relics,  wipe  their 
foreheads,  shake  hands,  compromise  the  dispute,  the  one  half 
the  world  admitting  that  though  he  was  a  genius  he  was  still 
an  ordinary  man;  the  other  half  allowing  that  though  he  was 
an  ordinary  man  he  was  still  a  genius.  And  so  on  to  the  next 
pedestal  with  its  "Hie  stet,"  and  the  next  great  stone  with 
its  "Hie  jacet." 

The  manager  of  the  Grand  Theatrical  Exhibition  gazed  on 
the  blind  sailor,  and  did  not  know  him  from  Adam  I 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  303 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  aboriginal  man-eater,  or  pocket-cannibal,  is  susceptible  of  the  refining 
influences  of  Civilization.  He  decorates  his  lair  with  the  skins  of  his 
victims ;  he  adorns  his  person  with  the  spoils  of  those  whom  he  devours. 
Mr.  Losely,  introduced  to  Mr.  Poole's  friends,  dresses  for  dinner;  and, 
combining  elegance  with  appetite,  eats  them  up. 

ELATED  with  the  success  which  had  rewarded  his  talents 
for  pecuniary  speculation,  and  dismissing  from  his  mind  all 
thoughts  of  the  fugitive  Sophy  and  the  spoliated  Rugge, 
Jasper  Losely  returned  to  London  in  company  with  his  new 
friend,  Mr.  Poole.  He  left  Arabella  Crane  to  perform  the 
same  journey  unattended;  but  that  grim  lady,  carefully  con- 
cealing any  resentment  at  such  want  of  gallantry,  felt  assured 
that  she  should  not  be  long  in  London  without  being  honoured 
by  his  visits. 

In  renewing  their  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Crane  had  con- 
trived to  establish  over  Jasper  that  kind  of  influence  which  a 
vain  man,  full  of  schemes  that  are  not  to  be  told  to  all  the 
world,  but  which  it  is  convenient  to  discuss  with  some  confi- 
dential friend  who  admires  himself  too  highly  not  to  respect 
his  secrets,  mechanically  yields  to  a  woman  whose  wits  are 
superior  to  his  own. 

It  is  true  that  Jasper,  on  his  return  to  the  metropolis,  was 
not  magnetically  attracted  towards  Podden  Place ;  nay,  days 
and  even  weeks  elapsed,  and  Mrs.  Crane  was  not  gladdened 
by  his  presence.  But  she  knew  that  her  influence  was  only 
suspended, —  not  extinct.  The  body  attracted  was  for  the 
moment  kept  from  the  body  attracting  by  the  abnormal  weights 
that  had  dropped  into  its  pockets.  Restore  the  body  thus 
temporarily  counterpoised  to  its  former  lightness,  and  it  would 
turn  to  Podden  Place  as  the  needle  to  the  Pole.  Meanwhile, 
oblivious  of  all  such  natural  laws,  the  disloyal  Jasper  had 
fixed  himself  as  far  from  the  reach  of  the  magnet  as  from 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Bloomsbury's  remotest  verge  is  St.  James's  animated  centre. 
The  apartment  he  engaged  was  showy  and  commodious.  He 
added  largely  to  his  wardrobe,  his  dressing-case,  his  trinket- 
box.  Nor,  be  it  here  observed,  was  Mr.  Losely  one  of  those 
beauish  brigands  who  wear  tawdry  scarves  over  soiled  linen, 
and  paste  rings  upon  unwashed  digitals.  To  do  him  justice, 
the  man,  so  stony-hearted  to  others,  loved  and  cherished  his 
own  person  with  exquisite  tenderness,  lavished  upon  it  deli- 
cate attentions,  and  gave  to  it  the  very  best  he  could  afford. 
He  was  no  coarse  debauchee,  smelling  of  bad  cigars  and  ar- 
dent spirits.  Cigars,  indeed,  were  not  among  his  vices  (at 
worst  the  rare  peccadillo  of  a  cigarette) :  spirit-drinking  was ; 
but  the  monster's  digestion  was  still  so  strong  that  he  could 
have  drunk  out  a  gin-palace,  and  you  would  only  have  sniffed 
the  jasmine  or  heliotrope  on  the  dainty  cambric  that  wiped 
the  last  drop  from  his  lips.  Had  his  soul  been  a  tenth  part 
as  clean  as  the  form  that  belied  it,  Jasper  Losely  had  been 
a  saint!  His  apartments  secured,  his  appearance  thus  revised 
and  embellished,  Jasper's  next  care  was  an  equipage  in  keep- 
ing; he  hired  a  smart  cabriolet  with  a  high-stepping  horse, 
and,  to  go  behind  it,  a  groom  whose  size  had  been  stunted 
in  infancy  by  provident  parents  designing  him  to  earn  his 
bread  in  the  stables  as  a  light-weight,  and  therefore  mingling 
his  mother's  milk  with  heavy  liquors.  In  short,  Jasper 
Losely  set  up  to  be  a  buck  about  town :  in  that  capacity  Dolly 
Poole  introduced  him  to  several  young  gentlemen  who  com- 
bined commercial  vocations  with  sporting  tastes;  they  could 
not  but  participate  in  Poole's  admiring  and  somewhat  envious 
respect  for  Jasper  Losely.  There  was  indeed  about  the  vig- 
orous miscreant  a  great  deal  of  false  brilliancy.  Deteriorated 
from  earlier  youth  though  the  beauty  of  his  countenance  might 
be,  it  was  still  undeniably  handsome;  and  as  force  of  muscle 
is  beauty  in  itself  in  the  eyes  of  young  sporting  men,  so 
Jasper  dazzled  many  a  gracilis  puer,  who  had  the  ambition  to 
become  an  athlete,  with  the  rare  personal  strength  which,  as 
if  in  the  exuberance  of  animal  spirits,  he  would  sometimes 
condescend  to  display,  by  feats  that  astonished  the  curious 
and  frightened  the  timid, —  such  as  bending  a  poker  or  horse- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  305 

shoe  between  hands  elegantly  white,  nor  unadorned  with 
rings, —  or  lifting  the  weight  of  Samuel  Dolly  by  the  waist- 
band, and  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  with  a  playful  bet  of 
ten  to  one  that  he  could  stand  by  the  fireplace  and  pitch  the 
said  Samuel  Dolly  out  of  the  open  window.  To  know  so 
strong  a  man,  so  fine  an  animal,  was  something  to  boast  of. 
Then,  too,  if  Jasper  had  a  false  brilliancy,  he  had  also  a  false 
bonhommie:  it  was  true  that  he  was  somewhat  imperious, 
swaggering,  bullying;  but  he  was  also  off-hand  and  jocund; 
and  as  you  knew  him,  that  sidelong  look,  that  defying  gait 
(look  and  gait  of  the  man  whom  the  world  cuts),  wore  away. 
In  fact,  he  had  got  into  a  world  which  did  not  cut  him,  and 
his  exterior  was  improved  by  the  atmosphere. 

Mr.  Losely  professed  to  dislike  general  society.  Drawing- 
rooms  were  insipid;  clubs  full  of  old  fogies.  "I  am  for  life, 
my  boys,"  said  Mr.  Losely, — 

" '  Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  flow, 
Or  pain  from  Beauty's  eye?  '  " 

Mr.  Losely,  therefore,  his  hat  on  one  side,  lounged  into  the 
saloons  of  theatres,  accompanied  by  a  cohort  of  juvenile  ad- 
mirers, their  hats  on  one  side  also,  and  returned  to  the  pleas- 
antest  little  suppers  in  his  own  apartment.  There  "the 
goblet "  flowed ;  and  after  the  goblet,  cigars  for  some,  and  a 
rubber  for  all. 

So  puissant  Losely's  vitality,  and  so  blest  by  the  stars  his 
luck,  that  his  form  seemed  to  wax  stronger  and  his  purse 
fuller  by  this  "life."  No  wonder  he  was  all  for  a  life  of 
that  kind;  but  the  slight  beings  who  tried  to  keep  up  with 
him  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  poorer  and  poorer;  a  few 
weeks  made  their  cheeks  spectral  and  their  pockets  a  dismal 
void.  Then  as  some  dropped  off  from  sheer  inanition,  others 
whom  they  had  decoyed  by  their  praises  of  "  Life "  and  its 
hero  came  into  the  magic  circle  to  fade  and  vanish  in  their 
turn. 

In  a  space  of  time  incredibly  brief,  not  a  whist-player  was 
left  upon  the  field :  the  victorious  Losely  had  trumped  out  the 

VOL.    I.  —  20 


306  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

last;  some  few  whom  Nature  had  endowed  more  liberally  than 
Fortune  still  retained  strength  enough  to  sup  —  if  asked ; 

"  Bat  none  who  came  to  sup  remained  to  play." 

"Plague  on  it,"  said  Losely  to  Poole,  as  one  afternoon  they 
were  dividing  the  final  spoils,  "your  friends  are  mightily  soon 
cleaned  out:  could  not  even  get  up  double  dummy  last  night; 
and  we  must  hit  on  some  new  plan  for  replenishing  the  coffers. 
You  have  rich  relations ;  can't  I  help  you  to  make  them  more 
useful?" 

Said  Dolly  Poole,  who  was  looking  exceedingly  bilious,  and 
had  become  a  martyr  to  chronic  headache, — 

"  My  relations  are  prigs !  Some  of  them  give  me  the  cold 
shoulder,  others  —  a  great  deal  of  jaw.  But  as  for  tin,  I 
might  as  well  scrape  a  flint  for  it.  My  uncle  Sam  is  more 
anxious  about  my  sins  than  the  other  codgers,  because  he  is 
my  godfather,  and  responsible  for  my  sins,  I  suppose;  and 
he  says  he  will  put  me  in  the  way  of  being  respectable.  My 
head  's  splitting  —  " 

"Wood  does  split  till  it  is  seasoned,"  answered  Losely. 
"Good  fellow,  uncle  Sam!  He  '11  put  you  in  the  way  of  tin; 
nothing  else  makes  a  man  respectable." 

"Yes, —  so  he  says;  a  girl  with  money  —  " 

"A  wife, —  tin  canister!  Introduce  me  to  her,  and  she  shall 
be  tied  to  you." 

Samuel  Dolly  did  not  appear  to  relish  the  idea  of  such  an 
introduction.  "  I  have  not  been  introduced  to  her  myself, " 
said  he.  "But  if  you  advise  me  to  be  spliced,  why  don't  you 
get  spliced  yourself?  a  handsome  fellow  like  you  can  be  at  no 
loss  for  an  heiress." 

"  Heiresses  are  the  most  horrid  cheats  in  the  world, "  said 
Losely :  "  there  is  always  some  father,  or  uncle,  or  fusty  Lord 
Chancellor  whose  consent  is  essential,  and  not  to  be  had. 
Heiresses  in  scores  have  been  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with 
me.  Before  I  left  Paris,  1  sold  their  locks  of  hair  to  a  wig- 
maker, —  three  great  trunksful.  Honour  bright.  But  there 
were  only  two  whom  I  could  have  safely  allowed  to  run  away 
with  me ;  and  they  were  so  closely  watched,  poor  things,  that 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  307 

I  was  forced  to  leave  them  to  their  fate, —  early  graves! 
Don't  talk  to  me  of  heiresses,  Dolly:  I  have  been  the  victim 
of  heiresses.  But  a  rich  widow  is  an  estimable  creature. 
Against  widows,  if  rich,  I  have  not  a  word  to  say;  and  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  there  is  a  widow  whom  I  suspect  I' have  fasci- 
nated, and  whose  connection  I  have  a  particular  private  rea- 
son for  deeming  desirable!  She  has  a  whelp  of  a  son,  who  is 
a  spoke  in  my  wheel :  were  I  his  father-in-law,  would  not  I 
be  a  spoke  in  his?  I'd  teach  the  boy  'life,'  Dolly."  Here 
all  trace  of  beauty  vanished  from  Jasper's  face,  and  Poole, 
staring  at  him,  pushed  away  his  chair.  "But,"  continued 
Losely,  regaining  his  more  usual  expression  of  levity  and 
boldness,  "  but  I  am  not  yet  quite  sure  what  the  widow  has, 
besides  her  son,  in  her  own  possession;  we  shall  see.  Mean- 
while, is  there  —  no  chance  of  a  rubber  to-night?" 

"  None ;  unless  you  will  let  Brown  and  Smith  play  upon  tick." 

"  Pooh !  but  there 's  Robinson,  he  has  an  aunt  he  can 
borrow  from?" 

"Robinson!  spitting  blood,  with  an  attack  of  delirium 
tremens!  You  have  done  for  him." 

"'Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  flow? '  "  said  Losely.  "  Well, 
I  suppose  it  can  —  when  a  man  has  no  coats  to  his  stomach ; 
but  you  and  I,  Dolly  Poole,  have  stomachs  thick  as  pea- 
jackets,  and  proof  as  gutta-percha." 

Poole  forced  a  ghastly  smile,  while  Losely,  gayly  springing 
up,  swept  his  share  of  booty  into  his  pockets,  slapped  his 
comrade  on  the  back,  and  said,  "Then,  if  the  mountain  will 
not  come  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  must  go  to  the  mountain! 
Hang  whist,  and  up  with  rouge-et-noir!  I  have  an  infallible 
method  of  winning;  only  it  requires  capital.  You  will  club 
your  cash  with  mine,  and  I  '11  play  for  both.  Sup  here  to- 
night, and  we  '11  go  to  the Hell  afterwards." 

Samuel  Dolly  had  the  most  perfect  confidence  in  his  friend's 
science  in  the  art  of  gambling,  and  he  did  not,  therefore,  dis- 
sent from  the  proposal  made.  Jasper  gave  a  fresh  touch  to 
his  toilet,  and  stepped  into  his  cabriolet.  Poole  cast  on  him 
a  look  of  envy,  and  crawled  to  his  lodging, — too  ill  for  his 
desk,  and  with  a  strong  desire  to  take  to  his  bed. 


308  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Is  there  a  heart  that  never  loved, 

Nor  felt  soft  woman's  sigh?  " 

If  there  be  such  a  heart,  it  is  not  in  the  breast  of  a  pocket-cannibal.  Your 
true  man-eater  is  usually  of  an  amorous  temperament :  he  can  be  indeed 
sufficiently  fond  of  a  lady  to  eat  her  up.  Mr.  Losely  makes  the  acquain- 
tance of  a  widow.  For  farther  particulars  inquire  within. 

THE  dignified  serenity  of  Gloucester  Place,  Portman  Square, 
is  agitated  by  the  intrusion  of  a  new  inhabitant.  A  house  in 
that  favoured  locality,  which  had  for  several  months  main- 
tained "  the  solemn  stillness  and  the  dread  repose  "  which  ap- 
pertain to  dwellings  that  are  to  be  let  upon  lease,  unfurnished, 
suddenly  started  into  that  exuberant  and  aggressive  life  which 
irritates  the  nerves  of  its  peaceful  neighbours.  The  bills 
have  been  removed  from  the  windows;  the  walls  have  been 
cleaned  down  and  pointed ;  the  street-door  repainted  a  lively 
green;  workmen  have  gone  in  and  out.  The  observant  ladies 
(single  ones)  in  the  house  opposite,  discover,  by  the  help  of  a 
telescope,  that  the  drawing-rooms  have  been  new  papered, 
canary-coloured  ground,  festoon  borders ;  and  that  the  mould- 
ings of  the  shutters  have  been  gilded.  Gilt  shutters!  that 
looks  ominous  of  an  ostentatious  and  party-giving  tenant. 

Then  carts  full  of  furniture  have  stopped  at  the  door;  car- 
pets, tables,  chairs,  beds,  wardrobes, —  all  seemingly  new,  and 
in  no  inelegant  taste, —  have  been  disgorged  into  the  hall. 
It  has  been  noticed,  too,  that  every  day  a  lady  of  slight  figure 
and  genteel  habiliments  has  come,  seemingly  to  inspect  prog- 
ress ;  evidently  the  new  tenant.  Sometimes  she  comes  alone ; 
sometimes  with  a  dark-eyed,  handsome  lad,  probably  her  son. 
Who  can  she  be?  what  is  she?  what  is  her  name?  her  his- 
tory? has  she  a  right  to  settle  in  Gloucester  Place,  Portman 
Square?  The  detective  police  of  London  is  not  peculiarly 
vigilant;  but  its  defects  are  supplied  by  the  voluntary  efforts 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  309 

of  unmarried  ladies.  The  new  comer  was  a  widow;  her  hus- 
band had  been  in  the  army;  of  good  family;  but  a  mauvais 
sujet;  she  had  been  left  in  straitened  circumstances  with  an 
only  son.  It  was  supposed  that  she  had  unexpectedly  come 
into  a  fortune,  on  the  strength  of  which  she  had  removed  from 
Pimlico  into  Gloucester  Place.  At  length,  the  preparations 
completed,  one  Monday  afternoon  the  widow,  accompanied 
by  her  son,  came  to  settle.  The  next  day  a  footman,  in  gen- 
teel livery  (brown  and  orange),  appeared  at  the  door.  Then, 
for  the  rest  of  the  week,  the  baker  and  butcher  called  regu- 
larly. On  the  following  Sunday,  the  lady  and  her  son  ap- 
peared at  church. 

No  reader  will  be  at  a  loss  to  discover  in  the  new  tenant  of 
No.  —  Gloucester  Place  the  widowed  mother  of  Lionel 
Haughton.  The  letter  for  that  lady  which  Darrell  had  in- 
trusted to  his  young  cousin  had,  in  complimentary  and  cordial 
language,  claimed  the  right  to  provide  for  her  comfortable 
and  honourable  subsistence;  and  announced  that  henceforth 
£800  a  year  would  be  placed  quarterly  to  her  account  at  Mr. 
Darrell's  banker,  and  that  an  additional  sum  of  £1200  was 
already  there  deposited  in  her  name,  in  order  to  enable  her  to 
furnish  any  residence  to  which  she  might  be  inclined  to  re- 
move. Mrs.  Haughton  therewith  had  removed  to  Gloucester 
Place. 

She  is  seated  by  the  window  in  her  front  drawing-room, 
surveying  with  proud  though  grateful  heart  the  elegances  by 
which  she  is  surrounded.  A  very  winning  countenance :  lively 
eyes,  that  in  themselves  may  be  over-quick  and  petulant;  but 
their  expression  is  chastened  by  a  gentle  kindly  mouth.  And 
over  the  whole  face,  the  attitude,  the  air,  even  the  dress 
itself,  is  diffused  the  unmistakable  simplicity  of  a  sincere 
natural  character.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Haughton  has  her  tempers 
and  her  vanities,  and  her  little  harmless  feminine  weaknesses; 
but  you  could  not  help  feeling  in  her  presence  that  you  were 
with  an  affectionate,  warm-hearted,  honest,  good  woman.  She 
might  not  have  the  refinements  of  tone  and  manner  which 
stamp  the  high-bred  gentlewoman  of  convention;  she  might 
evince  the  deficiencies  of  an  imperfect  third-rate  education: 


310  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

but  she  was  saved  from  vulgarity  by  a  certain  undefinable 
grace  of  person  and  music  of  voice, —  even  when  she  said  or 
did  things  that  well-bred  people  do  not  say  or  do;  and  there 
was  an  engaging  intelligence  in  those  quick  hazel  eyes  that 
made  you  sure  that  she  was  sensible,  even  when  she  uttered 
what  was  silly. 

Mrs.  Haughton  turned  from  the  interior  of  the  room  to  the 
open  window.  She  is  on  the  look-out  for  her  son,  who  has 
gone  to  call  on  Colonel  Morley,  and  who  ought  to  be  returned 
by  this  time.  She  begins  to  get  a  little  fidgety,  somewhat 
cross.  While  thus  standing  and  thus  watchful,  there  comes 
thundering  down  the  street  a  high-stepping  horse, —  bay,  with 
white  legs;  it  whirls  on  a  cabriolet, —  blue,  with  vermilion 
wheels ;  two  hands,  in  yellow  kid  gloves,  are  just  seen  under 
the  hood.  Mrs.  Haughton  suddenly  blushes  and  draws  in 
her  head.  Too  late!  the  cabriolet  has  stopped;  a  gentleman 
leans  forward,  takes  off  his  hat,  bows  respectfully.  "Dear, 
dear!"  murmurs  Mrs.  Haughton,  "I  do  think  he  is  going  to 
call:  some  people  are  born  to  be  tempted;  my  temptations 
have  been  immense !  He  is  getting  out;  he  knocks;  I  can't 
say,  now,  that  I  am  not  at  home, — very  awkward!  I  wish 
Lionel  were  here !  What  does  he  mean,  neglecting  his  own 
mother,  and  leaving  her  a  prey  to  tempters?" 

While  the  footman  is  responding  to  the  smart  knock  of  the 
visitor,  we  will  explain  how  Mrs.  Haughton  had  incurred 
that  gentleman's  acquaintance.  In  one  of  her  walks  to  her 
new  house  while  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  decorators,  her 
mind  being  much  absorbed  in  the  consideration  whether 
her  drawing-room  curtains  should  be  chintz  or  tabouret, — just 
as  she  was  crossing  the  street,  she  was  all  but  run  over  by  a 
gentleman's  cabriolet.  The  horse  was  hard-mouthed,  going 
at  full  speed.  The  driver  pulled  up  just  in  time;  but  the 
wheel  grazed  her  dress,  and  though  she  ran  back  instinctively, 
yet  when  she  was  safe  on  the  pavement,  the  fright  overpow- 
ered her  nerves,  and  she  clung  to  the  street-post  almost  faint- 
ing. Two  or  three  passers-by  humanely  gathered  round  her ; 
and  the  driver,  looking  back,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "  Not 
bad-looking;  neatly  dressed;  lady -like;  French  shawl;  may 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  311 

have  tin;  worth  while  perhaps!"  gallantly  descended  and 
hastened  to  offer  apologies,  with  a  respectful  hope  that  she 
was  not  injured. 

Mrs.  Haughton  answered  somewhat  tartly,  but  being  one  of 
those  good-hearted  women  who,  apt  to  be  rude,  are  extremely 
sorry  for  it  the  moment  afterwards,  she  wished  to  repair  any 
hurt  to  his  feelings  occasioned  by  her  first  impulse;  and 
when,  renewing  his  excuses,  he  offered  his  arm  over  the  cross- 
ing, she  did  not  like  to  refuse.  On  gaining  the  side  of  the 
way  on  which  her  house  was  situated,  she  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  blush  for  having  accepted  such  familiar  assistance 
from  a  perfect  stranger,  and  somewhat  to  falter  in  returning 
thanks  for  his  politeness. 

Our  gentleman,  whose  estimate  of  his  attractions  was  not 
humble,  ascribed  the  blushing  cheek  and  faltering  voice  to 
the  natural  effect  produced  by  his  appearance;  and  he  him- 
self admiring  very  much  a  handsome  bracelet  on  her  wrist, 
which  he  deemed  a  favourable  prognostic  of  "tin,"  watched 
her  to  her  door,  and  sent  his  groom  in  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing to  make  discreet  inquiries  in  the  neighbourhood.  The 
result  of  the  inquiries  induced  him  to  resolve  upon  prosecut- 
ing the  acquaintance  thus  begun.  He  contrived  to  learn  the 
hours  at  which  Mrs.  Haughton  usually  visited  the  house,  and 
to  pass  by  Gloucester  Place  at  the  very  nick  of  time.  His 
bow  was  recognizing,  respectful,  interrogative, —  a  bow  that 
asked  "How  much  farther?"  But  Mrs.  Haughton's  bow  re- 
spondent seemed  to  declare,  "  Not  at  all ! "  The  stranger  did 
not  venture  more  that  day ;  but  a  day  or  two  afterwards  he 
came  again  into  Gloucester  Place  on  foot.  On  that  occasion 
Mrs.  Haughton  was  with  her  son,  and  the  gentleman  would 
not  seem  to  perceive  her.  The  next  day  he  returned;  she 
was  then  alpne,  and  just  as  she  gained  her  door,  he  advanced. 
"I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons,  madam;  but  if  I  am  rightly 
informed,  I  have  the  honour  to  address  Mrs.  Charles 
Haughtou!" 

The  lady  bowed  in  surprise. 

"  Ah,  madam,  your  lamented  husband  was  one  of  my  most 
particular  friends." 


812  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"You  don't  say  so!"  cried  Mrs.  Haughton.  And  looking 
more  attentively  at  the  stranger,  there  was  in  his  dress  and 
appearance  something  that  she  thought  very  stylish;  a  partic- 
ular friend  of  Charles  Haughton's  was  sure  to  be  stylish, — 
to  be  a  man  of  the  first  water.  And  she  loved  the  poor  Cap- 
tain's memory;  her  heart  warmed  to  any  " particular  friend 
of  his." 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  gentleman,  noting  the  advantage  he 
had  gained,  "  though  I  was  considerably  his  junior,  we  were 
great  cronies;  excuse  that  familiar  expression;  in  the  Hussars 
together  —  " 

"The  Captain  was  not  in  the  Hussars,  sir;  he  was  in  the 
Guards." 

"  Of  course  he  was ;  but  I  was  saying  —  in  the  Hussars,  to- 
gether with  the  Guards,  there  were  some  very  fine  fellows; 
very  fine ;  he  was  one  of  them.  I  could  not  resist  paying  my 
respects  to  the  widowed  lady  of  so  fine  a  fellow.  I  know  it 
is  a  liberty,  ma'am,  but  't  is  my  way.  People  who  know  me 
well  —  and  I  have  a  large  acquaintance  —  are  kind  enough  to 
excuse  my  way.  And  to  think  that  villanous  horse,  which  I 
had  just  bought  out  of  Lord  Bolton's  stud  (200  guineas, 
ma'am,  and  cheap),  should  have  nearly  taken  the  life  of 
Charles  Haughton's  lovely  relict!  If  anybody  else  had  been 
driving  that  brute,  I  shudder  to  think  what  might  have  been 
the  consequences ;  but  I  have  a  wrist  of  iron.  Strength  is  a 
vulgar  qualification, — very  vulgar;  but  when  it  saves  a  lady 
from  perishing,  how  can  one  be  ashamed  of  it?  But  I  am 
detaining  you.  Your  own  house,  Mrs.  Haughton?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  have  just  taken  it,  but  the  workmen  have  not 
finished.  I  am  not  yet  settled  here." 

"Charming  situation!  My  friend  left  a  son,  I  believe?  In 
the  army  already?" 

"No,  sir,  but  he  wishes  it  very  much." 

"Mr.  Darrell,  I  think,  could  gratify  that  wish." 

"What!  you  know  Mr.  Darrell,  that  most  excellent  gener- 
ous man.  All  we  have  we  owe  to  him." 

The  gentleman  abruptly  turned  aside, — wisely;  for  his  ex- 
pression of  face  at  that  praise  might  have  startled  Mrs. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  313 

Haughton.  "Yes,  I  knew  him  once.  He  has  had  many  a 
fee  out  of  my  family.  Goodish  lawyer;  cleverish  man;  and 
rich  as  a  Jew.  I  should  like  to  see  my  old  friend's  son,  ma'am. 
He  must  be  monstrous  handsome  with  such  parents !  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  very  like  his  father.  I  shall  be  proud  to  present 
him  to  you." 

"Ma'am,  I  thank  you.  I  will  have  the  honour  to 
call  —  " 

And  thus  is  explained  how  Jasper  Losely  has  knocked  at 
Mrs.  Haughton's  door;  has  walked  up  her  stairs;  has  seated 
himself  in  her  drawing-room,  and  is  now  edging  his  chair 
somewhat  nearer  to  her,  and  throwing  into  his  voice  and  looks 
a  degree  of  admiration  which  has  been  sincerely  kindled  by 
the  aspect  of  her  elegant  apartments. 

Jessica  Haughton  was  not  one  of  those  women,  if  such  there 
be,  who  do  not  know  when  a  gentleman  is  making  up  to  them. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  that  with  a  very  little  encourage- 
ment her  visitor  would  declare  himself  a  suitor.  Nor,  to 
speak  truth,  was  she  quite  insensible  to  his  handsome  person, 
nor  quite  unmoved  by  his  flatteries.  She  had  her  weak  points, 
and  vanity  was  one  of  them.  Nor  conceived  she,  poor  lady, 
the  slightest  suspicion  that  Jasper  Losely  was  not  a  person- 
age whose  attentions  might  flatter  any  woman.  Though  he 
had  not  even  announced  a  name,  but,  pushing  aside  the  foot- 
man, had  sauntered  in  with  as  familiar  an  ease  as  if  he  had 
been  a  first  cousin ;  though  he  had  not  uttered  a  syllable  that 
could  define  his  station,  or  attest  his  boasted  friendship  with 
the  dear  defunct,  still  Mrs.  Haughton  implicitly  believed  that 
she  was  with  one  of  those  gay  chiefs  of  ton  who  had  glittered 
round  her  Charlie  in  that  earlier  morning  of  his  life,  ere  he 
had  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  and  bought  himself  out  of  jail; 
a  lord,  or  an  honourable  at  least;  and  she  was  even  (I  shudder 
to  say)  revolving  in  her  mind  whether  it  might  not  be  an 
excellent  thing  for  her  dear  Lionel  if  she  could  prevail  on 
herself  to  procure  for  him  the  prop  and  guidance  of  a  dis- 
tinguished and  brilliant  father-in-law, — rich,  noble,  evidently 
good-natured,  sensible,  attractive.  Oh!  but  the  temptation 
was  growing  more  and  more  IMMENSE!  when  suddenly  the 


814  WHAT   WILL   HE  DO   WITH   IT? 

door  opened,  and  in  sprang  Lionel  crying  out,  "  Mother  dear, 
the  Colonel  has  coine  with  me  on  purpose  to  —  " 

He  stopped  short,  staring  hard  at  Jasper  Losely.  That 
gentleman  advanced  a  few  steps,  extending  his  hand,  but 
came  to  an  abrupt  halt  on  seeing  Colonel  Morley's  figure  now 
filling  up  the  doorway.  Not  that  he  feared  recognition:  the 
Colonel  did  not  know  him  by  sight,  but  he  knew  by  sight  the 
Colonel.  In  his  own  younger  day,  when  lolling  over  the  rails 
of  Rotten  Row,  he  had  enviously  noted  the  leaders  of  fashion 
pass  by,  and  Colonel  Morley  had  not  escaped  his  observation. 
Colonel  Morley,  indeed,  was  one  of  those  men  who  by  name 
and  repute  are  sure  to  be  known  to  all  who,  like  Jasper  Losely 
in  his  youth,  would  fain  learn  something  about  that  gaudy, 
babbling,  and  remorseless  world  which,  like  the  sun,  either 
vivifies  or  corrupts,  according  to  the  properties  of  the  object 
on  which  it  shines.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  the  mere  sight  of 
the  real  fine  gentleman  that  made  the  mock  fine  gentleman 
shrink  and  collapse.  Though  Jasper  Losely  knew  himself  to 
be  still  called  a  magnificent  man, —  one  of  royal  Nature's 
Lifeguardsmen;  though  confident  that  from  top  to  toe  his  ha- 
biliments could  defy  the  criticism  of  the  strictest  martinet  in 
polite  costume,  no  sooner  did  that  figure,  by  no  means  hand- 
some and  clad  in  garments  innocent  of  buckram  but  guilty  of 
wrinkles,  appear  on  the  threshold  than  Jasper  Losely  felt 
small  and  shabby,  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  reduced  to  five 
feet  two,  and  had  bought  his  coat  out  of  an  old  clothesman's  bag. 

Without  appearing  even  to  see  Mr.  Losely,  the  Colonel,  in 
his  turn,  as  he  glided  past  him  towards  Mrs.  Haughton,  had, 
with  what  is  proverbially  called  the  corner  of  the  eye,  taken 
the  whole  of  that  impostor's  superb  personnel  into  calm  sur- 
vey, had  read  him  through  and  through,  and  decided  on  these 
two  points  without  the  slightest  hesitation, —  "  a  lady-killer 
and  a  sharper." 

Quick  as  breathing  had  been  the  effect  thus  severally  pro- 
duced on  Mrs.  Haughton's  visitors,  which  it  has  cost  so  many 
words  to  describe, — so  quick  that  the  Colonel,  without  any 
apparent  pause  of  dialogue,  has  already  taken  up  the  sentence 
Lionel  left  uncompleted,  and  says,  as  he  bows  over  Mrs. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  315 

Haughton's  hand,  "Come  on  purpose  to  claim  acquaintance 
with  an  old  friend's  widow,  a  young  friend's  mother." 

MRS.  HAUGHTON.  —  "  I  am  sure,  Colonel  Morley,  I  am  very 
much  flattered.  And  you,  too,  knew  the  poor  dear  Captain; 
't  is  so  pleasant  to  think  that  his  old  friends  come  round  us 
now.  This  gentleman,  also,  was  a  particular  friend  of  dear 
Charles's." 

The  Colonel  had  somewhat  small  eyes,  which  moved  with 
habitual  slowness.  He  lifted  those  eyes,  let  them  drop  upon 
Jasper  (who  still  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  one 
hand  still  half-extended  towards  Lionel),  and  letting  the  eyes 
rest  there  while  he  spoke,  repeated, — 

"Particular  friend  of  Charles  Haughton, — the  only  one 
of  his  particular  friends  whom  I  never  had  the  honour  to  see 
before." 

Jasper,  who,  whatever  his  deficiency  in  other  virtues,  cer- 
tainly did  not  lack  courage,  made  a  strong  effort  at  self-pos- 
session, and  without  replying  to  the  Colonel,  whose  remark 
had  not  been  directly  addressed  to  himself,  said  in  his  most 
rollicking  tone,  "Yes,  Mrs.  Haughton,  Charles  was  my  par- 
ticular friend,  but,"  lifting  his  eyeglass,  "but  this  gentleman 
was,"  dropping  the  eyeglass  negligently,  "not  in  our  set,  I 
suppose."  Then  advancing  to  Lionel,  and  seizing  his  hand, 
"  1  must  introduce  myself,  —  the  image  of  your  father,  I  de- 
clare! I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Haughton  how  much  I  should 
like  to  see  you;  proposing  to  her,  just  as  you  came  in,  that 
we  should  go  to  the  play  together.  Oh,  ma'am,  you  may 
trust  him  to  me  safely.  Young  men  should  see  LIFE."  Here 
Jasper  tipped  Lionel  one  of  those  knowing  winks  with  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  delight  and  ensnare  the  young  friends 
of  Mr.  Poole,  and  hurried  on:  "But  in  an  innocent  way, 
ma'am,  such  as  mothers  would  approve.  We  '11  fix  an  even- 
ing for  it  when  I  have  the  honour  to  call  again.  Good  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Haughton.  Your  hand  again,  sir  (to  Lionel).  Ah, 
we  shall  be  great  friends,  1  guess!  You  must  let  me  take 
you  out  in  my  cab;  teach  you  to  handle  the  ribbons,  eh? 
'Gad,  my  old  friend  Charles  was  a  whip.  Ha!  ha!  Good- 
day,  good-day  I " 


316  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Not  a  muscle  had  moved  in  the  Colonel's  face  during  Mr. 
Losely's  jovial  monologue.  But  when  Jasper  had  bowed 
himself  out,  Mrs.  Haughton,  courtesying,  and  ringing  the  bell 
for  the  footman  to  open  the  street-door,  the  man  of  the  world 
(and,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  Colonel  Morley  was  consummate) 
again  raised  those  small  slow  eyes, — this  time  towards  her 
face, — and  dropped  the  words, — 

"My  old  friend's  particular  friend  is  —  not  bad  looking, 
Mrs.  Haughton!" 

"And  so  lively  and  pleasant,"  returned  Mrs.  Haughton, 
with  a  slight  rise  of  colour,  but  no  other  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment. "It  may  be  a  nice  acquaintance  for  Lionel." 

"  Mother ! "  cried  that  ungrateful  boy,  "  you  are  not  speak- 
ing seriously?  I  think  the  man  is  odious.  If  he  were  not  my 
father's  friend,  I  should  say  he  was  —  " 

"What,  Lionel?"  asked  the  Colonel,  blandly,  "was  what?" 

"Snobbish,  sir." 

"Lionel,  how  dare  you?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haughton. 
"What  vulgar  words  boys  do  pick  up  at  school,  Colonel 
Morley." 

"  We  must  be  careful  that  they  do  not  pick  up  worse  than 
words  when  they  leave  school,  my  dear  madam.  You  will 
forgive  me,  but  Mr.  Darrell  has  so  expressly  —  of  course,  with 
your  permission  —  commended  this  young  gentleman  to  my 
responsible  care  and  guidance;  so  openly  confided  to  me  his 
views  and  intentions, —  that  perhaps  you  would  do  me  the 
very  great  favour  not  to  force  upon  him,  against  his  own 
wishes,  the  acquaintance  of  —  that  very  good-looking  person." 

Mrs.  Haughton  pouted,  and  kept  down  her  rising  temper. 
The  Colonel  began  to  awe  her. 

"By  the  by,"  continued  the  man  of  the  world,  "may  I  in- 
quire the  name  of  my  old  friend's  particular  friend?" 

"His  name?  upon  my  word  I  really  don't  know  it.  Per- 
haps he  left  his  card;  ring  the  bell,  Lionel." 

"  You  don't  know  his  name,  yet  you  know  him,  ma'am,  and 
would  allow  your  son  to  see  LIFE  under  his  auspices !  I  beg 
you  ten  thousand  pardons ;  but  even  ladies  the  most  cautious, 
mothers  the  most  watchful,  are  exposed  to  —  " 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  317 

"  Immense  temptations, — that  is  —  to  —  to  —  " 
"I  understand  perfectly,  my  dear  Mrs.  Haughton." 
The   footman   appeared.      "Did   that   gentleman  leave  a 
card?  " 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Did  not  you  ask  his  name  when  he  entered?" 
"Yes,  ma'am,  but  he  said  he  would  announce  himself." 
When  the  footman  had  withdrawn,   Mrs.    Haughton  ex- 
claimed piteously,  "I  have  been  to  blame,  Colonel;  I  see  it. 
But  Lionel  will  tell  you  how  I  came  to  know  the  gentleman, 

—  the  gentleman  who  nearly  ran  over  me,  Lionel,  and  then 
spoke  so  kindly  about  your  dear  father." 

"Oh,  that  is  the  person!  —  I  supposed  so,"  cried  Lionel, 
kissing  his  mother,  who  was  inclined  to  burst  into  tears.  "  I 
can  explain  it  all  now,  Colonel  Morley.  Any  one  who  says  a 
kind  word  about  my  father  warms  my  mother's  heart  to  him 
at  once;  is  it  not  so,  Mother  dear?" 

"And  long  be  it  so,"  said  Colonel  Morley,  with  grateful 
earnestness;  "and  may  such  be  my  passport  to  your  confi- 
dence, Mrs.  Haughton.  Charles  was  my  old  schoolfellow, — 
a  little  boy  when  I  and  Darrell  were  in  the  sixth  form ;  and, 
pardon  me,  when  I  add,  that  if  that  gentleman  were  ever 
Charles  Haughton's  particular  friend,  he  could  scarcely  have 
been  a  very  wise  one.  For  unless  his  appearance  greatly 
belies  his  years  he  must  have  been  little  more  than  a  boy 
when  Charles  Haughton  left  Lionel  fatherless." 

Here,  in  the  delicacy  of  tact,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Haughton 
looked  ashamed  of  the  subject,  and  seemed  aware  of  her  im- 
prudence, the  Colonel  rose,  with  a  request  —  cheerfully  granted 

—  that  Lionel  might  be  allowed  to  come  to  breakfast  with 
him  the  next  morning.  « 


318  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  MAN  of  the  world,  having  accepted  a  troublesome  charge,  considers  "  what 
he  will  do  with  it ; "  and,  having  promptly  decided,  is  sure,  first,  that  he 
could  not  have  done  better;  and,  secondly,  that  much  may  be  said  to 
prove  that  he  could  not  have  done  worse. 

RESERVING  to  a  later  occasion  any  more  detailed  description 
of  Colonel  Morley,  it  suffices  for  the  present  to  say  that  he 
was  a  man  of  a  very  fine  understanding  as  applied  to  the  spe- 
cial world  in  which  he  lived.  Though  no  one  had  a  more 
numerous  circle  of  friends,  and  though  with  many  of  those 
friends  he  was  on  that  footing  of  familiar  intimacy  which 
Darrell's  active  career  once,  and  his  rigid  seclusion  of  late, 
could  not  have  established  with  any  idle  denizen  of  that 
brilliant  society  in  which  Colonel  Morley  moved  and  had 
his  being,  yet  to  Alban  Morley's  heart  (a  heart  not  easily 
reached)  no  friend  was  so  dear  as  Guy  Darrell.  They  had 
entered  Eton  on  the  same  day,  left  it  the  same  day,  lodged 
while  there  in  the  same  house;  and  though  of  very  different 
characters,  formed  one  of  those  strong,  imperishable,  broth- 
erly affections  which  the  Fates  weave  into  the  very  woof  of 
existence. 

Darrell's  recommendation  would  have  secured  to  any  young 
protege  Colonel  Morley's  gracious  welcome  and  invaluable  ad- 
vice. But,  both  as  Darrell's  acknowledged  kinsman  and  as 
Charles  Haughton's  son,  Lionel  called  forth  his  kindliest 
sentiments  and  obtained  his  most  sagacious  deliberations. 
He  had  already  seen  the  boy  several  times  before  waiting  on 
Mrs.  Haughton,  deeming  it  would  please  her  to  defer  his 
visit  until  she  could  receive  him  in  all  the  glories  of  Glouces- 
ter Place;  and  he  had  taken  Lionel  into  high  favour  and 
deemed  him  worthy  of  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  world. 
Though  Darrell  in  his  letter  to  Colonel  Morley  had  emphat- 
ically distinguished  the  position  of  Lionel,  as  a  favoured  kins- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  319 

man,  from  that  of  a  presumptive  or  even  a  probable  heir,  yet 
the  rich  man  had  also  added :  "  But  I  wish  him  to  take  rank 
as  the  representative  to  the  Haughtons;  and,  whatever  I 
may  do  with  the  bulk  of  my  fortune,  I  shall  insure  to  him  a 
liberal  independence.  The  completion  of  his  education,  the 
adequate  allowance  to  him,  the  choice  of  a  profession,  are 
matters  in  which  I  entreat  you  to  act  for  yourself,  as  if  you 
were  his  guardian.  I  am  leaving  England :  I  may  be  abroad 
for  years."  Colonel  Morley,  in  accepting  the  responsibilities 
thus  pressed  on  him,  brought  to  bear  upon  his  charge  subtle 
discrimination,  as  well  as  conscientious  anxiety. 

He  saw  that  Lionel's  heart  was  set  upon  the  military  pro- 
fession, and  that  his  power  of  application  seemed  lukewarm 
and  desultory  when  not  cheered  and  concentred  by  enthusi- 
asm, and  would,  therefore,  fail  him  if  directed  to  studies 
which  had  no  immediate  reference  to  the  objects  of  his  ambi- 
tion. The  Colonel,  accordingly,  dismissed  the  idea  of  send- 
ing him  for  three  years  to  a  university.  Alban  Morley 
summed  up  his  theories  on  the  collegiate  ordeal  in  these  suc- 
cinct aphorisms:  "Nothing  so  good  as  a  university  education, 
nor  worse  than  a  university  without  its  education.  Better 
throw  a  youth  at  once  into  the  wider  sphere  of  a  capital  — 
provided  you  there  secure  to  his  social  life  the  ordinary 
checks  of  good  company,  the  restraints  imposed  by  the  pres- 
ence of  decorous  women,  and  men  of  grave  years  and  dignified 
repute  —  than  confine  him  to  the  exclusive  society  of  youths  of 
his  own  age,  the  age  of  wild  spirits  and  unreflecting  imita- 
tion, unless  he  cling  to  the  safeguard  which  is  found  in  hard 
reading,  less  by  the  book-knowledge  it  bestows  than  by  the 
serious  and  preoccupied  mind  which  it  abstracts  from  the 
coarser  temptations." 

But  Lionel,  younger  in  character  than  in  years,  was  too 
boyish  as  yet  to  be  safely  consigned  to  those  trials  of  tact 
and  temper  which  await  the  neophyte  who  enters  on  life 
through  the  doors  of  a  mess-room.  His  pride  was  too  mor- 
bid, too  much  on  the  alert  for  offence;  his  frankness  too 
crude,  his  spirit  too  untamed  by  the  insensible  discipline  of 
social  commerce. 


320  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Quoth  the  observant  man  of  the  world :  "  Place  his  honour  in 
his  own  keeping,  and  he  will  carry  it  about  with  him  on  full 
cock,  to  blow  off  a  friend's  head  or  his  own  before  the  end  of 
the  first  month.  Huffy!  decidedly  huffy!  and  of  all  causes 
that  disturb  regiments,  and  induce  courts-martial,  the  com- 
monest cause  is  a  huffy  lad !  Pity !  for  that  youngster  has  in 
him  the  right  metal, —  spirit  and  talent  that  should  make  him 
a  first-rate  soldier.  It  would  be  time  well  spent  that  should 
join  professional  studies  with  that  degree  of  polite  culture 
which  gives  dignity  and  cures  huffiness.  I  must  get  him  out 
of  London,  out  of  England;  cut  him  off  from  his  mother's 
apron-strings,  and  the  particular  friends  of  his  poor  father 
who  prowl  unannounced  into  the  widow's  drawing-room.  He 
shall  go  to  Paris ;  no  better  place  to  learn  military  theories, 
and  be  civilized  out  of  huffy  dispositions.  No  doubt  my  old 
friend,  the  chevalier,  who  has  the  art  strategic  at  his  finger- 
ends,  might  be  induced  to  take  him  en  pension,  direct  his 
studies,  and  keep  him  out  of  harm's  way.  I  can  secure  to 
him  the  entr&e  into  the  circles  of  the  rigid  old  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  where  manners  are  best  bred,  and  household  ties 
most  respected.  Besides,  as  I  am  so  often  at  Paris  myself,  I 
shall  have  him  under  my  eye,  and  a  few  years  there,  spent  in 
completing  him  as  man,  may  bring  him  nearer  to  that  mar- 
shal's baton  which  every  recruit  should  have  in  his  eye,  than 
if  I  started  him  at  once  a  raw  boy,  unable  to  take  care  of  him- 
self as  an  ensign,  and  unfitted,  save  by  mechanical  routine,  to 
take  care  of  others,  should  he  live  to  buy  the  grade  of  a 
colonel." 

The  plans  thus  promptly  formed  Alban  Morley  briefly  ex- 
plained to  Lionel  when  the  boy  came  to  breakfast  in  Curzon 
Street;  requesting  him  to  obtain  Mrs.  Haughton's  acquies- 
ence  in  that  exercise  of  the  discretionary  powers  with  which 
he  had  been  invested  by  Mr.  Darrell.  To  Lionel  the  propo- 
sition that  commended  the  very  studies  to  which  his  tastes 
directed  his  ambition,  and  placed  his  initiation  into  responsi- 
ble manhood  among  scenes  bright  to  his  fancy,  because  new 
to  his  experience,  seemed  of  course  the  perfection  of  wisdom. 

Less  readily  pleased  was  poor  Mrs.  Haughton,  wheft  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  321 

son  returned  to  communicate  the  arrangement,  backing  a 
polite  and  well-worded  letter  from  the  Colonel  with  his  own 
more  artless  eloquence.  Instantly  she  flew  off  on  the  wing  of 
her  "little  tempers."  "What!  her  only  son  taken  from  her; 
sent  to  that  horrid  Continent,  just  when  she  was  so  respecta- 
bly settled!  What  was  the  good  of  money  if  she  was  to  be 
parted  from  her  boy!  Mr.  Darrell  might  take  the  money 
back  if  he  pleased ;  she  would  write  and  tell  him  so.  Colonel 
Morley  had  no  feeling;  and  she  was  shocked  to  think  Lionel 
was  in  such  unnatural  hands.  She  saw  very  plainly  that  he 
no  longer  cared  for  her, —  a  serpent's  tooth,"  etc.  But  as 
soon  as  the  burst  was  over,  the  sky  cleared  and  Mrs.  Haughton 
became  penitent  and  sensible.  Then  her  grief  for  Lionel's 
loss  was  diverted  by  preparations  for  his  departure.  There 
was  his  wardrobe  to  see  to ;  a  patent  portmanteau  to  purchase 
and  to  fill.  And,  all  done,  the  last  evening  mother  and  son 
spent  together,  though  painful  at  the  moment,  it  would  be 
happiness  for  both  hereafter  to  recall !  Their  hands  clasped 
in  each  other,  her  head  leaning  on  his  young  shoulder,  her 
tears  kissed  so  soothingly  away,  and  soft  words  of  kindly 
motherly  counsel,  sweet  promises  of  filial  performances. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  as  an  after  remembrance,  be  the  final 
parting  between  hopeful  son  and  fearful  parent  at  the  foot  of 
that  mystic  bridge,  which  starts  from  the  threshold  of  home, 
—  lost  in  the  dimness  of  the  far-opposing  shore! — bridge 
over  which  goes  the  boy  who  will  never  return  but  as  the 
man. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  pocket-cannibal  baits  his  woman's  trap  with  love-letters,  and  a  widow 
allured  steals  timidly  towards  it  from  under  the  weeds. 

JASPER  LOSELY  is  beginning  to  be  hard  up !  The  infallible 
calculation  at  rouge-et-noir  has  carried  off  all  that  capital 
which  had  accumulated  from  the  savings  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen whom  Dolly  Poole  had  contributed  to  his  exchequer. 

VOL.  I.  —  21 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Poole  himself  is  beset  by  duns,  and  pathetically  observes 
"  that  he  has  lost  three  stone  in  weight,  and  that  he  believes 
the  calves  to  his  legs  are  gone  to  enlarge  his  liver." 

Jasper  is  compelled  to  put  down  his  cabriolet,  to  discharge 
his  groom,  to  retire  from  his  fashionable  lodgings;  and  just 
when  the  prospect  even  of  a  dinner  becomes  dim,  he  bethinks 
himself  of  Arabella  Crane,  and  remembers  that  she  promised 
him  £5,  nay  £10,  which  are  still  due  from  her.  He  calls;  he 
is  received  like  the  prodigal  son.  Nay,  to  his  own  surprise, 
he  finds  Mrs.  Crane  has  made  her  house  much  more  inviting : 
the  drawing-rooms  are  cleaned  up ;  the  addition  of  a  few  easy 
articles  of  furniture  gives  them  quite  a  comfortable  air.  She 
herself  has  improved  in  costume,  though  her  favourite  colour 
still  remains  iron  gray.  She  informs  Jasper  that  she  fully 
expected  him;  that  these  preparations  are  in  his  honour;  that 
she  has  engaged  a  very  good  cook;  that  she  hopes  he  will 
dine  with  her  when  not  better  engaged;  in  short,  lets  him  feel 
himself  at  home  in  Podden  Place. 

Jasper  at  first  suspected  a  sinister  design,  under  civilities 
that  his  conscience  told  him  were  unmerited, —  a  design  to 
entrap  him  into  that  matrimonial  alliance  which  he  had  so 
ungallantly  scouted,  and  from  which  he  still  recoiled  with  an 
abhorrence  which  man  is  not  justified  in  feeling  for  any  con- 
nubial partner  less  preternaturally  terrific  than  the  Witch  of 
Endor  or  the  Bleeding  Nun ! 

But  Mrs.  Crane  quickly  and  candidly  hastened  to  dispel 
his  ungenerous  apprehensions.  She  had  given  up,  she  said, 
all  ideas  so  preposterous;  love  and  wedlock  were  equally 
out  of  her  mind.  But  ill  as  he  had  behaved  to  her,  she 
could  not  but  feel  a  sincere  regard  for  him, — a  deep  in- 
terest in  his  fate.  He  ought  still  to  make  a  brilliant  mar- 
riage: did  that  idea  not  occur  to  him?  She  might  help  him 
there  with  her  woman's  wit.  "In  short,'"  said  Mrs.  Crane, 
pinching  her  lips,  "In  short,  Jasper,  I  feel  for  you  as  a 
mother.  Look  on  me  as  such ! " 

The  pure  and  affectionate  notion  wonderfully  tickled  and 
egregiously  delighted  Jasper  Losely.  "Look  on  you  as  a 
mother!  I  will,"  said  he,  with  emphasis.  "Best  of  crea- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  323 

tures !"  And  though  in  his  own  niind  he  had  not  a  doubt  that 
she  still  adored  him  (not  as  a  mother),  he  believed  it  was  a 
disinterested,  devoted  adoration,  such  as  the  beautiful  brute 
really  had  inspired  more  than  once  in  his  abominable  life. 
Accordingly,  he  moved  into  the  neighbourhood  of  Podden 
Place,  contenting  himself  with  a  second-floor  bedroom  in  a 
house  recommended  to  him  by  Mrs.  Crane,  and  taking  his 
meals  at  his  adopted  mother's  with  filial  familiarity.  She 
expressed  a  desire  fco  make  Mr.  Poole's  acquaintance;  Jasper 
hastened  to  present  that  worthy.  Mrs.  Crane  invited  Samuel 
Dolly  to  dine  one  day,  to  sup  the  next;  she  lent  him  £3  to 
redeem  his  dress-coat  from  pawn,  and  she  gave  him  medica- 
ments for  the  relief  of  his  headache. 

Samuel  Dolly  venerated  her  as  a  most  superior  woman; 
envied  Jasper  such  a  "mother."  Thus  easily  did  Arabella 
Crane  possess  herself  of  the  existence  of  Jasper  Losely. 
Lightly  her  fingers  closed  over  it, — lightly  as  the  fisherman's 
over  the  captivated  trout.  And  whatever  her  generosity,  it 
was  not  carried  to  imprudence.  She  just  gave  to  Jasper 
enough  to  bring  him  within  her  power;  she  had  no  idea  of 
ruining  herself  by  larger  supplies:  she  concealed  from  him 
the  extent  of  her  income  (which  was  in  chief  part  derived 
from  house-rents),  the  amount  of  her  savings,  even  the  name 
of  her  banker.  And  if  he  carried  off  to  the  rouge-et-noir  table 
the  coins  he  obtained  from  her,  and  came  for  more,  Mrs. 
Crane  put  on  the  look  of  a  mother  incensed, —  mild  but  awful, 
—  and  scolded  as  mothers  sometimes  can  scold.  Jasper 
Losely  began  to  be  frightened  at  Mrs.  Crane's  scoldings. 
And  he  had  not  that  power  over  her  which,  though  arrogated 
by  a  lover,  is  denied  to  an  adopted  son.  His  mind,  relieved 
from  the  habitual  distraction  of  the  gaming-table  for  which 
the  resource  was  wanting,  settled  with  redoubled  ardour  on 
the  image  of  Mrs.  Haughton.  He  had  called  at  her  house 
several  times  since  the  fatal  day  on  which  he  had  met  there 
Colonel  Morley,  but  Mrs.  Haughton  was  never  at  home.  And 
as  when  the  answer  was  given  to  him  by  the  footman,  he  had 
more  than  once,  on  crossing  the  street,  seen  herself  through 
the  window,  it  was  clear  that  his  acquaintance  was  not 


324  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

courted.  Jasper  Losely,  by  habit,  was  the  reverse  of  a  perti- 
nacious and  troublesome  suitor;  not,  Heaven  knows,  from 
want  of  audacity,  but  from  excess  of  self-love.  Where  a 
Lovelace  so  superb  condescended  to  make  overtures,  a  Clarissa 
so  tasteless  as  to  decline  them  deserved  and  experienced  his 
co'ntempt.  Besides,  steadfast  and  prolonged  pursuit  of  any 
object,  however  important  and  attractive,  was  alien  to  the 
levity  and  fickleness  of  his  temper.  But  in  this  instance  he 
had  other  motives  than  those  on  the  surface  for  unusual 
perseverance. 

A  man  like  Jasper  Losely  never  reposes  implicit  confidence 
in  any  one.  He  is  garrulous,  indiscreet;  lets  out  much  that 
Machiavel  would  have  advised  him  not  to  disclose:  but  he 
invariably  has  nooks  and  corners  in  his  mind  which  he  keeps 
to  himself.  Jasper  did  not  confide  to  his  adopted  mother  his 
designs  upon  his  intended  bride.  But  she  knew  them  through 
Poole,  to  whom  he  was  more  frank ;  and  when  she  saw  him 
looking  over  her  select  and  severe  library,  taking  therefrom 
the  "Polite  Letter- Writer"  and  the  "Elegant  Extracts,"  Mrs. 
Crane  divined  at  once  that  Jasper  Losely  was  meditating  the 
effect  of  epistolary  seduction  upon  the  widow  of  Gloucester 
Place. 

Jasper  did  not  write  a  bad  love-letter  in  the  florid  style. 
He  had  at  his  command,  in  especial,  certain  poetical  quotations, 
the  effect  of  which  repeated  experience  had  assured  him  to  be 
as  potent  upon  the  female  breast  as  the  incantations  or  car- 
mina  of  the  ancient  sorcery.  The  following  in  particular, — 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  you." 

Another,  generally  to  be  applied  when  confessing  that  his  ca- 
reer had  been  interestingly  wild,  and  would,  if  pity  were 
denied  him,  be  pathetically  short, — 

"  When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  faults  and  his  follies  behind." 

Armed  with  these  quotations,  many  a  sentence  from  the  "  Po- 
lite Letter- Writer  "  or  the  "Elegant  Extracts,"  and  a  quire  of 
rose-edged  paper,  Losely  sat  down  to  Ovidian  composition. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  325 

But  as  he  approached  the  close  of  epistle  the  first,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  a  signature  and  address  were  necessary.  The  ad- 
dress was  not  difficult.  He  could  give  Poole's  (hence  his  con- 
fidence to  that  gentleman):  Poole  had  a  lodging  in  Bury 
Street,  St.  James's,  a  fashionable  locality  for  single  men. 
But  the  name  required  more  consideration.  There  were  in- 
superable objections  against  signing  his  own  to  any  person 
who  might  be  in  communication  with  Mr.  Darrell ;  a  pity,  for 
there  was  a  good  old  family  of  the  name  of  Losely.  A  name 
of  aristocratic  sound  might  indeed  be  readily  borrowed  from 
any  lordly  proprietor  thereof  without  asking  a  formal  con- 
sent. But  this  loan  was  exposed  to  danger.  Mrs.  Haughton 
might  very  naturally  mention  such  name,  as  borne  by  her 
husband's  friend,  to  Colonel  Morley;  and  Colonel  Morley 
would  most  probably  know  enough  of  the  connections  and  re- 
lations of  any  peer  so  honoured  to  say,  "There  is  no  such 
Greville,  Cavendish,  or  Talbot."  But  Jasper  Losely  was  not 
without  fertility  of  invention  and  readiness  of  resource.  A 
grand  idea,  worthy  of  a  master,  and  proving  that,  if  the  man 
had  not  been  a  rogue  in  grain,  he  could  have  been  reared  into 
a  very  clever  politician,  flashed  across  him.  He  would  sign 
himself  "SMITH."  Nobody  could  say  there  is  no  such  Smith; 
nobody  could  say  that  a  Smith  might  not  be  a  most  respecta- 
ble, fashionable,  highly-connected  man.  There  are  Smiths 
who  are  millionaires;  Smiths  who  are  large-acred  squires; 
substantial  baronets;  peers  of  England,  and  pillars  of  the 
State.  You  can  no  more  question  a  man's  right  to  be  a  Smith 
than  his  right  to  be  a  Briton;  and  wide  as  the  diversity  of 
rank,  lineage,  virtue,  and  genius  in  Britons  is  the  diversity  in 
Smiths.  But  still  a  name  so  generic  often  affects  a  definitive 
precursor.  Jasper  signed  himself  "  J.  COURTENAY  SMITH." 

He  called,  and  left  epistle  the  first  with  his  own  kid-gloved 
hand,  inquiring  first  if  Mrs.  Haughton  were  at  home,  and, 
responded  to  in  the  negative  this  time,  he  asked  for  her  son. 
"Her  son  was  gone  abroad  with  Colonel  Morley."  Jasper, 
though  sorry  to  lose  present  hold  over  the  boy,  was  consoled 
at  learning  that  the  Colonel  was  off  the  ground.  More  san- 
guine of  success,  he  glanced  up  at  the  window,  and,  sure  that 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Mrs.  Haughton  was  there,  though  he  saw  her  not,  lifted  his 
hat  with  as  melancholy  an  expression  of  reproach  as  he  could 
throw  into  his  face. 

The  villain  could  not  have  found  a  moment  in  Mrs. 
Haughton's  widowed  life  so  propitious  to  his  chance  of  suc- 
cess. In  her  lodging-house  at  Pimlico,  the  good  lady  had 
been  too  incessantly  occupied  for  that  idle  train  of  revery,  in 
which  the  poets  assure  us  that  Cupid  finds  leisure  to  whet  his 
arrows  and  take  his  aim.  Had  Lionel  still  been  by  her  side, 
had  even  Colonel  Morley  been  in  town,  her  affection  for  the 
one,  her  awe  of  the  other,  would  have  been  her  safeguards. 
But  alone  in  that  fine  new  house,  no  friends,  no  acquaint- 
ances as  yet,  no  dear  visiting  circle  on  which  to  expend  the 
desire  of  talk  and  the  zest  for  innocent  excitement  that  are 
natural  to  ladies  of  an  active  mind  and  a  nervous  tempera- 
ment, the  sudden  obtrusion  of  a  suitor  so  respectfully  ardent, 
—  oh,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  temptation  was 

IMMENSE. 

And  when  that  note,  so  neatly  folded,  so  elegantly  sealed, 
lay  in  her  irresolute  hand,  the  widow  could  not  but  feel  that 
she  was  still  young,  still  pretty;  and  her  heart  flew  back  to 
the  day  when  the  linendraper's  fair  daughter  had  been  the 
cynosure  of  the  provincial  High  Street;  when  young  officers 
had  lounged  to  and  fro  the  pavement,  looking  in  at  her 
window;  when  ogles  and  notes  had  alike  beset  her,  and  the 
dark  eyes  of  the  irresistible  Charlie  Haughton  had  first  taught 
her  pulse  to  tremble.  And  in  her  hand  lies  the  letter  of 
Charlie  Haughton's  particular  friend.  She  breaks  the  seal. 
She  reads  —  a  declaration! 

Five  letters  in  five  days  did  Jasper  write.  In  the  course  of 
those  letters,  he  explains  away  the  causes  for  suspicion  which 
Colonel  Morley  had  so  ungenerously  suggested.  He  is  no 
longer  anonymous;  he  is  J.  Courtenay  Smith.  He  alludes 
incidentally  to  the  precocious  age  in  which  he  had  become 
"lord  of  himself,  that  heritage  of  woe."  This  accounts  for 
his  friendship  with  a  man  so  much  his  senior  as  the  late 
Charlie.  He  confesses  that  in  the  vortex  of  dissipation  his 
hereditary  estates  have  disappeared;  but  he  has  still  a  gen- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  327 

teel  independence;  and  with  the  woman  of  his  heart,  etc. 
He  had  never  before  known  what  real  love  was,  etc.  "  Pleas- 
ure had  fired  his  maddening  soul; "  "  but  the  heart, — the  heart 
been  lonely  still."  He  entreated  only  a  personal  interview, 
even  though  to  be  rejected, —  scorned.  Still,  when  "he  who 
adored  her  had  left  but  the  name,"  etc.  Alas!  alas!  as  Mrs. 
Haughton  put  down  epistle  the  fifth,  she  hesitated;  and  the 
woman  who  hesitates  in  such  a  case,  is  sure,  at  least  —  to 
write  a  civil  answer. 

Mrs.  Haughton  wrote  but  three  lines, —  still  they  were 
civil;  and  conceded  an  interview  for  the  next  day,  though 
implying  that  it  was  but  for  the  purpose  of  assuring  Mr.  J. 
Courtenay  Smith,  in  person,  of  her  unalterable  fidelity  to  the 
shade  of  his  lamented  friend. 

In  high  glee  Jasper  showed  Mrs.  Haughton's  answer  to 
Dolly  Poole,  and  began  seriously  to  speculate  on  the  probable 
amount  of  the  widow's  income,  and  the  value  of  her  movables 
in  Gloucester  Place.  Thence  he  repaired  to  Mrs.  Crane ;  and, 
emboldened  by  the  hope  forever  to  escape  from  her  maternal 
tutelage,  braved  her  scoldings  and  asked  for  a  couple  of  sover- 
eigns. He  was  sure  that  he  should  be  in  luck  that  night. 
She  gave  to  him  the  sum,  and  spared  the  scoldings.  But,  as 
soon  as  he  was  gone,  conjecturing  from  the  bravado  of  his 
manner  what  had  really  occurred,  Mrs.  Crane  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
UNHAPPY  is  the  man  who  puts  his  trust  iu  —  a  woman. 

LATE  that  evening  a  lady,  in  a  black  veil,  knocked  at  No. 
—  Gloucester  Place,  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Haughton  on  ur- 
gent business.  She  was  admitted.  She  remained  but  five 
minutes. 

The  next  day  when,  "gay  as  a  bridegroom  prancing  to  his 
bride,"  Jasper  Losely  presented  himself  at  the  widow's  door, 


328  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  servant  placed  in  his  hand  a  packet,  and  informed  him 
bluffly  that  Mrs.  Haughton  had  gone  out  of  town.  Jasper 
with  difficulty  suppressed  his  rage,  opened  the  packet, — his 
own  letters  returned,  with  these  words,  "Sir,  your  name 
is  not  Courtenay  Smith.  If  you  trouble  me  again,  I  shall 
apply  to  the  police."  Never  from  female  hand  had  Jasper 
Losely's  pride  received  such  a  slap  on  its  face.  He  was 
literally  stunned.  Mechanically  he  hastened  to  Arabella 
Crane ;  and  having  no  longer  any  object  in  concealment,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  a  most  urgent  craving  for  sympathy,  he 
poured  forth  his  indignation  and  wrongs.  No  mother  could 
be  more  consolatory  than  Mrs.  Crane.  She  soothed,  she  flat- 
tered, she  gave  him  an  excellent  dinner;  after  which,  she 
made  him  so  comfortable,  what  with  an  easy-chair  and  com- 
plimentary converse,  that,  when  Jasper  rose  late  to  return  to 
his  lodging,  he  said,  "After  all,  if  I  had  been  ugly  and 
stupid,  and  of  a  weakly  constitution,  I  should  have  been  of  a 
very  domestic  turn  of  mind." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

No  author  ever  drew  a  character  consistent  to  human  nature,  but  what 
he  was  forced  to  ascribe  to  it  many  inconsistencies. 

WHETHER  moved  by  that  pathetic  speech  of  Jasper's,  or  by 
some  other  impulse  not  less  feminine,  Arabella  Crane  seemed 
suddenly  to  conceive  the  laudable  and  arduous  design  of  re- 
forming that  portentous  sinner.  She  had  some  distant  rela- 
tions in  London,  whom  she  very  rarely  troubled  with  a  visit, 
and  who,  had  she  wanted  anything  from  them,  would  have 
shut  their  doors  in  her  face ;  but  as,  on  the  contrary,  she  was 
well  off,  single,  and  might  leave  her  money  to  whom  she 
pleased,  the  distant  relations  were  always  warm  in  manner, 
and  prodigal  in  their  offers  of  service.  The  next  day  she  re- 
paired to  one  of  these  kinsfolk, —  a  person  in  a  large  way  of 
business, —  and  returned  home  with  two  great  books  in  white 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  329 

sheepskin.  And  when  Losely  looked  in  to  dine,  she  said,  in 
the  suavest  tones  a  tender  mother  can  address  to  an  amiable 
truant,  "  Jasper,  you  have  great  abilities ;  at  the  gaming-table 
abilities  are  evidently  useless :  your  forte  is  calculation ;  you 
were  always  very  quick  at  that.  I  have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  procure  you  an  easy  piece  of  task-work,  for  which  you  will 
be  liberally  remunerated.  A  friend  of  mine  wishes  to  submit 
these  books  to  a  regular  accountant :  he  suspects  that  a  clerk 
has  cheated  him;  but  he  cannot  tell  how  or  where.  You 
know  accounts  thoroughly, — no  one  better, — and  the  pay  will 
be  ten  guineas." 

Jasper,  though  his  early  life  had  rendered  familiar  and 
facile  to  him  the  science  of  book-keeping  and  double-entry, 
made  a  grimace  at  the  revolting  idea  of  any  honest  labour, 
however  light  and  well  paid.  But  ten  guineas  were  an  im- 
mense temptation,  and  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Crane  coaxed  him 
into  the  task. 

Neglecting  no  feminine  art  to  make  the  lawless  nomad  feel 
at  home  under  her  roof,  she  had  provided  for  his  ease  and 
comfort  morocco  slippers  and  a  superb  dressing-robe,  in 
material  rich,  in  colour  becoming.  Men,  single  or  marital, 
are  accustomed  to  connect  the  idea  of  home  with  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  especially  if,  after  dinner,  they  apply  (as 
Jasper  Losely  now  applied)  to  occupations  in  which  the  brain 
is  active,  the  form  in  repose.  What  achievement,  literary  or 
scientific,  was  ever  accomplished  by  a  student  strapped  to 
unyielding  boots,  and  "cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  in  a  coat 
that  fits  him  like  wax?  As  robed  in  the  cozy  garment  which 
is  consecrated  to  the  sacred  familiar  Lares,  the  relaxing, 
handsome  ruffian  sat  in  the  quiet  room,  bending  his  still  regu- 
lar profile  over  the  sheepskin  books,  the  harmless  pen  in  that 
strong  well-shaped  hand,  Mrs.  Crane  watched  him  with  a 
softening  countenance.  To  bear  him  company,  she  had  ac- 
tively taken,  herself,  to  work, —  the  gold  thimble  dragged 
from  its  long  repose, — marking  and  hemming,  with  nimble 
artistic  fingers,  new  cravats  for  the  adopted  son!  Strange 
creature  is  woman!  Ungrateful  and  perfidious  as  that  sleek 
tiger  before  her  had  often  proved  himself,  though  no  man 


330  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

could  less  deserve  one  kindly  sentiment  in  a  female  heart, 
though  she  knew  that  he  cared  nothing  for  her,  still  it  was 
pleasing  to  know  that  he  cared  for  nobody  else,  that  he  was 
sitting  in  the  same  room;  and  Arabella  Crane  felt  that,  if 
that  existence  could  continue,  she  could  forget  the  past  and 
look  contented  towards  the  future.  Again  I  say,  strange 
creature  is  woman;  and  in  this  instance,  creature  more 
strange,  because  so  grim!  But  as  her  eyes  soften,  and  her 
fingers  work,  and  her  mind  revolves  schemes  for  making  that 
lawless  wild  beast  an  innocuous  tame  animal,  who  can  help 
feeling  for  and  with  grim  Arabella  Crane? 

Poor  woman!  And  will  not  the  experiment  succeed?  Three 
evenings  does  Jasper  Losely  devote  to  this  sinless  life  and  its 
peaceful  occupation.  He  completes  his  task;  he  receives  the 
ten  guineas.  (How  much  of  that  fee  came  out  of  Mrs.  Crane's 
privy  purse?)  He  detects  three  mistakes,  which  justify  sus- 
picion of  the  book-keeper's  integrity.  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief!  He  is  praised  for  acuteness,  and  promised  a  still 
lighter  employment,  to  be  still  better  paid.  He  departs,  de- 
claring that  he  will  come  the  next  day,  earlier  than  usual ;  he 
volunteers  an  eulogium  upon  work  in  general ;  he  vows  that 
evenings  so  happy  he  has  not  spent  for  years ;  he  leaves  Mrs. 
Crane  so  much  impressed  by  the  hope  of  his  improvement 
that,  if  a  good  clergyman  had  found  her  just  at  that  moment, 
she  might  almost  have  been  induced  to  pray.  But  — 

"  Hen  quoties  fidem 
Mutatosque  deos  flebit ! " 

Jasper  Losely  returns  not,  neither  to  Podden  Place  nor  to  his 
lodging  in  the  neighbourhood.  Days  elapse;  still  he  comes 
not;  even  Poole  does  not  know  where  he  has  gone;  even 
Poole  has  not  seen  him!  But  that  latter  worthy  is  now  laid 
up  with  a  serious  rheumatic  fever,  confined  to  his  room  and 
water-gruel;  and  Jasper  Losely  is  not  the  man  to  intrude 
himself  on  the  privacy  of  a  sick-chamber.  Mrs.  Crane,  more 
benevolent,  visits  Poole;  cheers  him  up;  gets  him  a  nurse; 
writes  to  Uncle  Sam.  Poole  blesses  her.  He  hopes  that 
Uncle  Sam,  moved  by  the  spectacle  of  his  sick-bed,  will  say, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  331 

"Don't  let  your  debts  fret  you:  I  will  pay  them!"  What- 
ever her  disappointment  or  resentment  at  Jasper's  thankless 
and  mysterious  evasion,  Arabella  Crane  is  calmly  confident  of 
his  return.  To  her  servant,  Bridget  Greggs,  who  was  per- 
haps the  sole  person  in  the  world  who  entertained  affection 
for  the  lone  gaunt  woman,  and  who  held  Jasper  Losely  in 
profound  detestation,  she  said,  with  tranquil  sternness,  "  That 
man  has  crossed  my  life,  and  darkened  it.  He  passed  away, 
and  left  Night  behind  him.  He  has  dared  to  return.  He 
shall  never  escape  me  again  till  the  grave  yawn  for  one 
of  us." 

"  But,  Lor'  love  you,  miss,  you  would  not  put  yourself  in 
the  power  of  such  a  black-hearted  villing?" 

"In  his  power!  No,  Bridget;  fear  not,  he  must  be  in 
mine,  sooner  or  later  in  mine,  hand  and  foot.  Patience !  " 

As  she  was  thus  speaking, —  a  knock  at  the  door!  "  It  is  he j 
I  told  you  so ;  quick !  " 

But  it  was  not  Jasper  Losely.     It  was  Mr.  Rugge. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
"  WHEN  God  wills,  all  winds  bring  rain."  — Ancient  Proverb. 

THE  manager  had  not  submitted  to  the  loss  of  his  property 
in  Sophy  and  £100  without  taking  much  vain  trouble  to 
recover  the  one  or  the  other.  He  had  visited  Jasper  while 
that  gentleman  lodged  in  St.  James's;  but  the  moment  he 
hinted  at  the  return  of  the  £100,  Mr.  Losely  opened  both 
door  and  window,  and  requested  the  manager  to  make  his 
immediate  choice  of  the  two.  Taking  the  more  usual  mode 
of  exit,  Mr.  Rugge  vented  his  just  indignation  in  a  lawyer's 
letter,  threatening  Mr.  Losely  with  an  action  for  conspiracy 
and  fraud.  He  had  also  more  than  once  visited  Mrs.  Crane, 
who  somewhat  soothed  him  by  allowing  that  he  had  been  very 
badly  used,  that  he  ought  at  least  to  be  repaid  his  money, 


832  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

and  promising  to  do  her  best  to  persuade  Mr.  Losely  "  to  be- 
have  like  a  gentleman."  With  regard  to  Sophy  herself,  Mrs. 
Crane  appeared  to  feel  a  profound  indifference.  In  fact,  the 
hatred  which  Mrs.  Crane  had  unquestionably  conceived  for 
Sophy  while  under  her  charge  was  much  diminished  by  Losely 's 
unnatural  conduct  towards  the  child.  To  her  it  was  probably 
a  matter  of  no  interest  whether  Sophy  was  in  Kugge's  hands 
or  Waife's;  enough  for  her  that  the  daughter  of  a  woman 
against  whose  memory  her  fiercest  passions  were  enlisted  was, 
in  either  case,  so  far  below  herself  in  the  grades  of  the  social 
ladder. 

Perhaps  of  the  two  protectors  for  Sophy,  Rugge  and  Waife, 
her  spite  alone  would  have  given  the  preference  to  Waife. 
He  was  on  a  still  lower  step  of  the  ladder  than  the  itinerant 
manager.  Nor,  though  she  had  so  mortally  injured  the  for- 
lorn cripple  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Hartopp,  had  she  any  deliber- 
ate purpose  of  revenge  to  gratify  against  him !  On  the  con- 
trary, if  she  viewed  him  with  contempt,  it  was  a  contempt 
not  unmixed  with  pity.  It  was  necessary  to  make  to  the 
Mayor  the  communications  she  had  made,  or  that  worthy 
magistrate  would  not  have  surrendered  the  child  intrusted  to 
him,  at  least  until  Waife's  return.  And  really  it  was  a  kind- 
ness to  the  old  man  to  save  him  both  from  an  agonizing  scene 
with  Jasper,  and  from  the  more  public  opprobrium  which  any 
resistance  on  his  part  to  Jasper's  authority  or  any  altercation 
between  the  two  would  occasion.  And  as  her  main  object  then 
was  to  secure  Losely's  allegiance  to  her,  by  proving  her  power 
to  be  useful  to  him,  so  Waifes  and  Sophys  and  Mayors  and 
Managers  were  to  her  but  as  pawns  to  be  moved  and  sacri- 
ficed, according  to  the  leading  strategy  of  her  game. 

Rugge  came  now,  agitated  and  breathless,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Crane  that  Waife  had  been  seen  in  London.  Mr.  Rugge 's 
clown  had  seen  him,  not  far  from  the  Tower;  but  the  cripple 
had  disappeared  before  the  clown,  who  was  on  the  top  of  an 
omnibus,  had  time  to  descend.  "  And  even  if  he  had  actually 
caught  hold  of  Mr.  Waife,"  observed  Mrs.  Crane,  "what  then? 
You  have  no  claim  on  Mr.  Waife." 

"But  the  Phenomenon  must  be  with  that  ravishing  ma- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  333 

rauder,"  said  Rugge.  "However,  I  have  set  a  minister  of  jus- 
tice—  that  is,  ma'am,  a  detective  police  —  at  work;  and  what 
I  now  ask  of  you  is  simply  this :  should  it  be  necessary  for 
Mr.  Losely  to  appear  with  me  before  the  senate  —  that  is  to 
say,  ma'am,  a  metropolitan  police-court  —  in  order  to  prove 
my  legal  property  in  my  own  bought  and  paid  for  Phenome- 
non, will  you  induce  that  bold  bad  man  not  again  to  return 
the  poisoned  chalice  to  my  lips?" 

"  I  do  not  even  know  where  Mr.  Losely  is ;  perhaps  not  in 
London." 

"Ma'am,  I  saw  him  last  night  at  the  theatre, — Princess's. 
I  was  in  the  shilling  gallery.  He  who  owes  me  £100,  ma'am, 

—  he  in  a  private  box !  " 

"Ah!  you  are  sure;  by  himself?" 

"With  a  lady,  ma'am, —  a  lady  in  a  shawl  from  Ingee.  I 
know  them  shawls.  My  father  taught  me  to  know  them  in 
early  childhood,  for  he  was  an  ornament  to  British  commerce, 

—  a  broker,  ma'am, —  pawn!    And,"  continued  Rugge,  with  a 
withering  smile,  "  that  man  in  a  private  box,  which  at  the 
Princess's  costs  two  pounds  two,  and  with  the  spoils  of  Ingee 
by  his  side,  lifted  his  eyeglass  and  beheld  me, — me  in  the 
shilling  gallery!  and  his  conscience  did  not  say,  'Should  we 
not  change  places  if  I  paid  that  gentleman  £100? '     Can  such 
things  be,  and  overcome  us,  ma'am,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
without  our  special  —  I  put  it  to  you,  ma'am  —  wonder?" 

"Oh,  with  a  lady,  was  he?"  exclaimed  Arabella  Crane, 
her  wrath,  which,  while  the  manager  spoke,  gathered  fast 
and  full,  bursting  now  into  words.  "  His  ladies  shall  know 
the  man  who  sells  his  own  child  for  a  show;  only  find  out 
where  the  girl  is,  then  come  here  again  before  you  stir  fur- 
ther. Oh,  with  a  lady !  Go  to  your  detective  policeman,  or 
rather  send  him  to  me;  we  will  first  discover  Mr.  Losely 's 
address.  I  will  pay  all  the  expenses.  Rely  on  my  zeal,  Mr. 
Rugge." 

Much  comforted,  the  manager  went  his  way.  He  had  not 
been  long  gone  before  Jasper  himself  appeared.  The  traitor 
entered  with  a  more  than  customary  bravado  of  manner,  as  if 
he  apprehended  a  scolding,  and  was  prepared  to  face  it;  but 


334  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Mrs.  Crane  neither  reproached  him  for  his  prolonged  absence, 
nor  expressed  surprise  at  his  return.  With  true  feminine 
duplicity,  she  received  him  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Jasper,  thus  relieved,  became  of  his  own  accord  apologetic 
and  explanatory;  evidently  he  wanted  something  of  Mrs. 
Crane.  "The  fact  is,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  sinking  into 
a  chair,  "  that  the  day  after  I  last  saw  you  I  happened  to  go 
to  the  General  Post  Office  to  see  if  there  were  any  letters  for 
me.  You  smile :  you  don't  believe  me.  Honour  bright,  here 
they  are ;"  and  Jasper  took  from  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat 
a  pocket-book,  a  new  pocket-book,  a  brilliant  pocket-book, 
fragrant  Kussian  leather,  delicately  embossed,  golden  clasps, 
silken  linings,  jewelled  pencil-case,  malachite  pen-knife, 

—  an  arsenal  of  knickknacks  stored  in  neat  recesses;    such 
a  pocket-book  as  no  man  ever  gives  to  himself.     Sardanapalus 
would  not  have  given  that  pocket-book  to  himself!     Such  a 
pocket-book  never  comes  to  you,  0  enviable  Lotharios,  save 
as  tributary  keepsakes   from  the  charmers  who  adore  you! 
Grimly  the  Adopted  Mother  eyed  that  pocket-book.     Never 
had  she  seen  it  before.     Grimly  she  pinched  her  lips.     Out 
of  this  dainty  volume  —  which  would  have  been  of  cumbrous 
size  to  a  slim  thread-paper  exquisite,  but  scarcely  bulged  into 
ripple  the  Atlantic  expanse  of  Jasper  Losely's   magnificent 
chest  —  the  monster  drew  forth  two  letters  on  French  paper, 

—  foreign    post-marks.      He  replaced    them    quickly,    only 
suffering  her  eye  to  glance  at  the  address,  and  continued, 
"Fancy!  that  purse-proud  Grand  Turk  of  an  infidel,  though 
he  would  not  believe  me,  has  been  to  France, — yes,  actually 

to ,  making  inquiries  evidently  with  reference  to  Sophy. 

The   woman  who  ought  to  have  thoroughly  converted  him 
took  flight,  however,  and  missed  seeing  him.     Confound  her ! 
I  ought  to  have  been  there.     So  I  have  no  doubt  for  the  pres- 
ent the  Pagan  remains  stubborn.     Gone  on  into  Italy  I  hear; 
doing  me,  violating  the  laws  of  Nature,  and  roving  about  the 
world,  with  his  own  solitary  hands  in  his  bottomless  pockets, 

—  like  the  wandering  Jew!    But,  as   some  slight  set-off  in 
my  run  of  ill-luck,  I  find  at  the  post-office  a  pleasanter  letter 
than  the  one  which  brings  me  this  news.     A  rich  elderly 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  335 

lady,  who  has  no  family,  wants  to  adopt  a  nice  child;  will 
take  Sophy, —  make  it  worth  my  while  to  let  her  have  Sophy. 
'T  is  convenient  in  a  thousand  ways  to  settle  one's  child  com- 
fortably in  a  rich  house;  establishes  rights,  subject,  of  course, 
to  cheques  which  would  not  affront  me, — a  father"!  But  the 
first  thing  requisite  is  to  catch  Sophy :  't  is  in  that  I  ask  your 
help ;  you  are  so  clever.  Best  of  creatures !  what  could  I  do 
without  you?  As  you  say,  whenever  I  want  a  friend  I  come 
to  you, —Bella!" 

Mrs.  Crane  surveyed  Jasper's  face  deliberately.  It  is 
strange  how  much  more  readily  women  read  the  thoughts  of 
men  than  men  detect  those  of  women.  "You  know  where 
the  child  is,"  said  she,  slowly. 

"  Well,  I  take  it  for  granted  she  is  with  the  old  man ;  and  I 
have  seen  him, —  seen  him  yesterday." 

"Go  on;  you  saw  him, — where?" 

"Near  London  Bridge." 

"  What  business  could  you  possibly  have  in  that  direction? 
Ah!  I  guess,  the  railway  station  to  Dover:  you  are  going 
abroad?  " 

"No  such  thing;  you  are  so  horribly  suspicious.  But  it  is 
true  I  had  been  to  the  station  inquiring  after  some  luggage  or 
parcels  which  a  friend  of  mine  had  ordered  to  be  left  there ; 
now,  don't  interrupt  me.  At  the  foot  of  the  bridge  I  caught 
a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  old  man, —  changed,  altered,  aged, 
one  eye  lost.  You  had  said  I  should  not  know  him  again,  but 
I  did ;  I  should  never  have  recognized  his  face.  I  knew  him 
by  the  build  of  the  shoulder,  a  certain  turn  of  the  arms,  I 
don't  know  what;  one  knows  a  man  familiar  to  one  from 
birth  without  seeing  his  face.  Oh,  Bella;  I  declare  that  I 
felt  as  soft, — as  soft  as  the  silliest  muff  who  ever  —  "  Jasper 
did  not  complete  his  comparison,  but  paused  a  moment, 
breathing  hard,  and  then  broke  into  another  sentence.  "  He 
was  selling  something  in  a  basket, — matches,  boot-straps, 
deuce  knows  what.  He!  a  clever  man  too!  I  should  have 
liked  to  drop  into  that  d — d  basket  all  the  money  I  had  about 
me." 

"Why  did  not  you?" 


336  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"Why?  How  could  I?  He  would  have  recognized  me. 
There  would  have  been  a  scene, —  a  row,  a  flare  up,  a  mob 
round  us,  I  dare  say.  I  had  no  idea  it  would  so  upset  me ; 
to  see  him  selling  matches  too ;  glad  we  did  not  meet  at  Gates- 
boro'.  Not  even  for  that  £100  do  I  think  I  could  have  faced 
him.  •  No;  as  he  said  when  we  last  parted, 'The  world  is  wide 
enough  for  both.'  Give  me  some  brandy;  thank  you." 

"  You  did  not  speak  to  the  old  man ;  he  did  not  see  you : 
but  you  wanted  to  get  back  the  child ;  you  felt  sure  she  must 
be  with  him;  you  followed  him  home?" 

"I?  No;  I  should  have  had  to  wait  for  hours.  A  man 
like  me,  loitering  about  London  Bridge !  I  should  have  been 
too  conspicuous;  he  would  have  soon  caught  sight  of  me, 
though  I  kept  on  his  blind  side.  I  employed  a  ragged  boy  to 
watch  and  follow  him,  and  here  is  the  address.  Now,  will 
you  get  Sophy  back  for  me  without  any  trouble  to  me,  with- 
out my  appearing?  I  would  rather  charge  a  regiment  of 
horse-guards  than  bully  that  old  man." 

"Yet  you  would  rob  him  of  the  child, —  his  sole  comfort?" 

"Bother!"  cried  Losely,  impatiently;  "the  child  can  be 
only  a  burden  to  him;  well  out  of  his  way;  'tis  for  the  sake 
of  that  child  he  is  selling  matches !  It  would  be  the  greatest 
charity  we  could  do  him  to  set  him  free  from  that  child 
sponging  on  him,  dragging  him  down;  without  her  he  'd  find 
a  way  to  shift  for  himself.  Why,  he 's  even  cleverer  than  I 
am!  And  there  —  there;  give  him  this  money,  but  don't  say 
it  came  from  me." 

He  thrust,  without  counting,  several  sovereigns  —  at  least 
twelve  or  fourteen  —  into  Mrs.  Crane's  palm ;  and  so  power- 
ful a  charm  has  goodness  the  very  least,  even  in  natures  the 
most  evil,  that  that  unusual,  eccentric,  inconsistent  gleam  of 
human  pity  in  Jasper  Losely's  benighted  soul  shed  its  relent- 
ing influence  over  the  angry,  wrathful,  and  vindictive  feelings 
with  which  Mrs.  Crane  the  moment  before  regarded  the  per- 
fidious miscreant ;  and  she  gazed  at  him  with  a  sort  of  melan- 
choly wonder.  What!  though  so  little  sympathizing  with 
affection  that  he  could  not  comprehend  that  he  was  about  to 
rob  the  old  man  of  a  comfort  which  no  gold  could  repay;  what 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  337 

though  so  contemptuously  callous  to  his  own  child, —  yet 
there  in  her  hand  lay  the  unmistakable  token  that  a  some- 
thing of  humanity,  compunction,  compassion,  still  lingered  in 
the  breast  of  the  greedy  cynic;  and  at  that  thought  all  that 
was  softest  in  her  own  human  nature  moved  towards  him, — 
indulgent,  gentle.  But  in  the  rapid  changes  of  the  heart 
feminine,  the  very  sentiment  that  touched  upon  love  brought 
back  the  jealousy  that  bordered  upon  hate.  How  came  he  by 
so  much  money?  more  than  days  ago  he,  the  insatiate  spend- 
thrift, had  received  for  his  task-work?  And  that  POCKET- 
BOOK! 

"You  have  suddenly  grown  rich,  Jasper." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  confused,  but  replied  as  he  re- 
helped  himself  to  the  brandy,  "Yes,  rouge-et-noir, — luck. 
Now,  do  go  and  see  after  this  affair,  that's  a  dear  good 
woman.  Get  the  child  to-day  if  you  can;  I  will  call  here  in 
the  evening." 

"  Should  you  take  her,  then,  abroad  at  once  to  this  worthy 
lady  who  will  adopt  her?  If  so,  we  shall  meet,  I  suppose,  no 
more;  and  I  am  assisting  you  to  forget  that  I  live  still." 

"Abroad, —  that  crotchet  of  yours  again!  You  are  quite 
mistaken;  in  fact,  the  lady  is  in  London.  It  was  for  her 
effects  that  I  went  to  the  station.  Oh,  don't  be  jealous, — 
quite  elderly." 

"Jealous,  my  dear  Jasper!  you  forget.  I  am  as  your 
mother.  One  of  your  letters,  then,  announced  this  lady's  in- 
tended arrival ;  you  were  in  correspondence  with  this  —  elderly 
lady." 

"Why,  not  exactly  in  correspondence.  But  when  I  left 
Paris  I  gave  the  General  Post  Office  as  my  address  to  a  few 
friends  in  France.  And  this  lady,  who  took  an  interest  in 
my  affairs  (ladies,  whether  old  or  young,  who  have  once 
known  me,  always  do),  was  aware  that  I  had  expectations 
with  respect  to  the  child.  So  some  days  ago,  when  I  was  so 
badly  off,  I  wrote  a  line  to  tell  her  that  Sophy  had  been  no 
go,  and  that,  but  for  a  dear  friend  (that  is  you),  I  might  be 
on  the  pave.  In  her  answer,  she  said  she  should  be  in  Lon- 
don as  soon  as  I  received  her  letter;  and  gave  me  an  address 
VOL.  i.  —  22 


838  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

here  at  which  to  learn  where  to  find  her  when  arrived, —  a 
good  old  soul,  but  strange  to  London.  I  have  been  very  busy, 
helping  her  to  find  a  house,  recommending  tradesmen,  and  so 
forth.  She  likes  style,  and  can  afford  it.  A  pleasant  house 
enough,  but  our  quiet  evenings  here  spoil  me  for  anything 
else.  Now  get  on  your  bonnet,  and  let  me  see  you  off." 

"On  one  condition,  my  dear  Jasper, —  that  you  stay  here 
till  I  return." 

Jasper  made  a  wry  face.  But,  as  it  was  near  dinner-time 
and  he  never  wanted  for  appetite,  he  at  length  agreed  to  em- 
ploy the  interval  of  her  absence  in  discussing  a  meal,  which 
experience  had  told  him  Mrs.  Crane's  new  cook  would,  not 
unskilfully,  though  hastily,  prepare.  Mrs.  Crane  left  him  to 
order  the  dinner,  and  put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet.  But,  gain- 
ing her  own  room,  she  rang  for  Bridget  Greggs,  and  when  that 
confidential  servant  appeared,  she  said,  "In  the  side  pocket 
of  Mr.  Losely's  coat  there  is  a  POCKET-BOOK;  in  it  there  are 
some  letters  which  I  must  see.  I  shall  appear  to  go  out; 
leave  the  street-door  ajar,  that  I  may  slip  in  again  unob- 
served. You  will  serve  dinner  as  soon  as  possible.  And 
when  Mr.  Losely,  as  usual,  exchanges  his  coat  for  the  dress- 
ing-gown, contrive  to  take  out  that  pocket-book  unobserved  by 
him.  Bring  it  to  me  here,  in  this  room :  you  can  as  easily 
replace  it  afterwards.  A  moment  will  suffice  to  my  purpose." 

Bridget  nodded,  and  understood.  Jasper,  standing  by  the 
window,  saw  Mrs.  Crane  leave  the  house,  walking  briskly. 
He  then  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  began  to  doze:  the 
doze  deepened,  and  became  sleep.  Bridget,  entering  to  lay 
the  cloth,  so  found  him.  She  approached  on  tiptoe,  sniffed 
the  perfume  of  the  pocket-book,  saw  Its  gilded  corners  peep 
forth  from  its  lair.  She  hesitated;  she  trembled;  she  was  in 
mortal  fear  of  that  truculent  slumberer ;  but  sleep  lessens  the 
awe  thieves  feel  or  heroes  inspire.  She  has  taken  the  pocket- 
book;  she  has  fled  with  the  booty;  she  is  in  Mrs.  Crane's 
apartment  not  five  minutes  after  Mrs.  Crane  has  regained  its 
threshold. 

Rapidly  the  jealous  woman  ransacked  the  pocket-book; 
started  to  see,  elegantly  worked  with  gold  threads,  in  the  lin- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  339 

ing,  the  words,  "  SOTTVIENS  TOI  DE  TA  GABRIELLE  ; "  no  other 
letters,  save  the  two,  of  which  Jasper  had  vouchsafed  to  her 
but  the  glimpse.  Over  these  she  hurried  her  glittering  eyes; 
and  when  she  restored  them  to  their  place,  and  gave  back  the 
book  to  Bridget,  who  stood  by  breathless  and  listening,  lest 
Jasper  should  awake,  her  face  was  colourless,  and  a  kind  of 
shudder  seemed  to  come  over  her.  Left  alone,  she  rested  her 
face  on  her  hand,  her  lips  moving  as  if  in  self -commune. 
Then  noiselessly  she  glided  down  the  stairs,  regained  the 
street,  and  hurried  fast  upon  her  way. 

Bridget  was  not  in  time  to  restore  the  book  to  Jasper's 
pocket,  for  when  she  re-entered  he  was  turning  round  and 
stretching  himself  between  sleep  and  waking.  But  she 
dropped  the  book  skilfully  on  the  floor,  close  beside  the  sofa: 
it  would  seem  to  him,  on  waking,  to  have  fallen  out  of  the 
pocket  in  the  natural  movements  of  sleep. 

And,  in  fact,  when  he  rose,  dinner  now  on  the  table,  he 
picked  up  the  pocket-book  without  suspicion.  But  it  was 
lucky  that  Bridget  had  not  waited  for  the  opportunity  sug- 
gested by  her  mistress.  For  when  Jasper  put  on  the  dress- 
ing-gown, he  observed  that  his  coat  wanted  brushing;  and,  in 
giving  it  to  the  servant  for  that  purpose,  he  used  the  precau- 
tion of  taking  out  the  pocket-book,  and  placing  it  in  some 
other  receptacle  of  his  dress. 

Mrs.  Crane  returned  in  less  than  two  hours, —  returned  with 
a  disappointed  look,  which  at  once  prepared  Jasper  for  the 
intelligence  that  the  birds  to  be  entrapped  had  flown. 

"They  went  away  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  tossing 
Jasper's  sovereigns  on  the  table  as  if  they  burned  her  fingers. 
"  But  leave  the  fugitives  to  me.  I  will  find  them. " 

Jasper  relieved  his  angry  mind  by  a  series  of  guilty  but 
meaningless  expletives;  and  then,  seeing  no  further  use  to 
which  Mrs.  Crane's  wish  could  be  applied  at  present,  finished 
the  remainder  of  her  brandy,  and  wished  her  good-night,  with 
a  promise  to  call  again,  but  without  any  intimation  of  his 
own  address.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Crane  once  more 
summoned  Bridget. 

"  You  told  me  last  week  that  your  brother-in-law,  Simpson, 


340  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

wished  to  go  to  America,  that  he  had  the  offer  of  employment 
there,  but  that  he  could  not  afford  the  fare  of  the  voyage.  I 
promised  I  would  help  him  if  it  was  a  service  to  you." 

"  You  are  a  hangel,  miss ! "  exclaimed  Bridget,  dropping  a 
low  courtesy, —  so  low  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  going  on 
her  knees.  "And  may  you  have  your  deserts  in  the  next 
blessed  world,  where  there  are  no  black-hearted  villings." 

"Enough,  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  recoiling  perhaps  from 
that  grateful  benediction.  "  You  have  been  faithful  to  me,  as 
none  else  have  ever  been;  but  this  time  I  do  not  serve  you  in 
return  so  much  as  I  meant  to  do.  The  service  is  reciprocal, 
if  your  brother-in-law  will  do  me  a  favour.  He  takes  with 
him  his  daughter,  a  mere  child.  Bridget,  let  them  enter 
their  names  on  the  steam-vessel  as  William  and  Sophy  Waif e ; 
they  can,  of  course,  resume  their  own  name  when  the  voyage 
is  over.  There  is  the  fare  for  them,  and  something  more. 
Pooh,  no  thanks.  I  can  spare  the  money.  See  your  brother- 
in-law  the  first  thing  in  the  morning;  and  remember  that 
they  go  by  the  next  vessel,  which  sails  from  Liverpool  on 
Thursday." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THOSE  poor  pocket-cannibals,  how  society  does  persecute  them !  Even  a 
menial  servant  would  give  warning  if  disturbed  at  his  meals.  But  your 
man-eater  is  the  meekest  of  creatures ;  he  will  never  give  warning,  and 
— not  often  take  it. 

WHATEVER  the  source  that  had  supplied  Jasper  Losely 
with  the  money  from  which  he  had  so  generously  extracted 
the  sovereigns  intended  to  console  Waife  for  the  loss  of 
Sophy,  that  source  either  dried  up  or  became  wholly  inade- 
quate to  his  wants ;  for  elasticity  was  the  felicitous  peculiar- 
ity of  Mr.  Losely's  wants.  They  accommodated  themselves 
to  the  state  of  his  finances  with  mathematical  precision,  al- 
ways requiring  exactly  five  times  the  amount  of  the  means 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  341 

placed  at  his  disposal.  From  a  shilling  to  a  million,  multi- 
ply his  wants  by  five  times  the  total  of  his  means,  and  you 
arrived  at  a  just  conclusion.  Jasper  called  upon  Poole,  who 
was  slowly  recovering,  but  unable  to  leave  his  room;  and 
finding  that  gentleman  in  a  more  melancholy  state  of  mind 
than  usual,  occasioned  by  Uncle  Sam's  brutal  declaration 
that  "  if  responsible  for  his  godson's  sins  he  was  not  respon- 
sible for  his  debts,"  and  that  he  really  thought  "the  best 
thing  Samuel  Dolly  could  do,  was  to  go  to  prison  for  a  short 
time  and  get  whitewashed, "  Jasper  began  to  lament  his  own 
hard  fate :  "  And  just  when  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Paris 
has  come  here  on  purpose  to  see  me,"  said  the  lady-killer, —  "a 
lady  who  keeps  her  carriage,  Dolly !  Would  have  introduced 
you,  if  you  had  been  well  enough  to  go  out.  One  can't  be  al- 
ways borrowing  of  her.  I  wish  one  could.  There  's  mother 
Crane  would  sell  her  gown  off  her  back  for  me;  but  'Gad, 
sir,  she  snubs,  and  positively  frightens  me.  Besides,  she 
lays  traps  to  demean  me ;  set  me  to  work  like  a  clerk !  —  not 
that  I  would  hurt  your  feelings,  Dolly:  if  you  are  a  clerk, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  you  are  a  gentleman  at  heart. 
Well,  then,  we  are  both  done  up  and  cleaned  out;  and  my  de- 
cided opinion  is,  that  nothing  is  left  but  a  bold  stroke." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  bold  strokes,  but  I  don't  see  any ; 
and  Uncle  Sam's  bold  stroke  of  the  Fleet  prison  is  not  at  all 
to  my  taste." 

"Fleet  prison!  Fleet  fiddlestick!  No.  You  have  never 
been  in  Eussia.  Why  should  we  not  go  there  both?  My 
Paris  fxiend,  Madame  Caumartin,  was  going  to  Italy,  but  her 
plans  are  changed,  and  she  is  now  all  for  St.  Petersburg.  She 
will  wait  a  few  days  for  you  to  get  well.  We  will  all  go  to- 
gether and  enjoy  ourselves.  The  Russians  dote  upon  whist. 
We  shall  get  into  their  swell  sets  and  live  like  princes." 
Therewith  Jasper  launched  forth  on  the  text  of  Russian  exist- 
ence in  such  glowing  terms  that  Dolly  Poole  shut  his  aching 
eyes  and  fancied  himself  sledging  down  the  Neva,  covered 
with  furs;  a  countess  waiting  for  him  at  dinner,  and  counts 
in  dozens  ready  to  offer  bets  to  a  fabulous  amount  that  Jasper 
Losely  lost  the  rubber. 


342  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Having  lifted  his  friend  into  this  region  of  aerial  castles, 
Jasper  then,  descending  into  the  practical  world,  wound  up 
with  the  mournful  fact  that  one  could  not  get  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, nor  when  there  into  swell  sets,  without  having  some 
little  capital  on  hand. 

"  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  Madame  Caumartin  lives  in 
prime  style.  Get  old  Latham,  your  employer,  to  discount 
her  bill  at  three  months'  date  for  £500,  and  we  will  be  all  off 
in  a  crack."  Poole  shook  his  head.  "Old  Latham  is  too 
knowing  a  file  for  that.  A  foreigner!  He  'd  want  security." 

"I'll  be  security." 

Dolly  shook  his  head  a  second  time,  still  more  emphatically 
than  the  first. 

"But  you  say  he  does  discount  paper, —  gets  rich  on  it?" 

"Yes,  gets  rich  on  'it,  which  he  might  not  do  if  he  dis- 
counted the  paper  you  propose.  No  offence." 

"  Oh,  no  offence  among  friends !  You  have  taken  him  bills 
which  he  has  discounted?" 

"  Yes, —  good  paper." 

"  Any  paper  signed  by  good  names  is  good  paper.  We  can 
sign  good  names  if  we  know  their  handwritings." 

Dolly  started,  and  turned  white.  Knave  he  was, —  cheat  at 
cards,  blackleg  on  the  turf, —  but  forgery!  that  crime  was 
new  to  him.  The  very  notion  of  it  brought  on  a  return  of 
fever;  and  while  Jasper  was  increasing  his  malady  by  argu- 
ing with  his  apprehensions,  luckily  for  Poole,  Uncle  Sam 
came  in.  Uncle  Sam,  a  sagacious  old  tradesman,  no  sooner 
clapped  eyes  on  the  brilliant  Losely  than  he  conceived  for 
him  a  distrustful  repugnance,  similar  to  that  with  which  an 
experienced  gander  may  regard  a  fox  in  colloquy  with  its  gos- 
ling. He  had  already  learned  enough  of  his  godson's  ways 
and  chosen  society  to  be  assured  that  Samuel  Dolly  had  in- 
dulged in  very  anti-commercial  tastes,  and  been  sadly  contam- 
inated by  very  anti-commercial  friends.  He  felt  persuaded 
that  Dolly's  sole  chance  of  redemption  was  in  working  on  his 
mind  while  his  body  was  still  suffering,  so  that  Poole  might, 
on  recovery,  break  with  all  former  associations.  On  seeing 
Jasper  in  the  dress  of  an  exquisite,  with  the  thews  of  a  prize- 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  343 

fighter,  Uncle  Sam  saw  the  stalwart  incarnation  of  all  the  sins 
which  a  godfather  had  vowed  that  a  godson  should  renounce. 
Accordingly,  he  made  himself  so  disagreeable  that  Losely,  in 
great  disgust,  took  a  hasty  departure.  And  Uncle  Sam.  as 
he  helped  the  nurse  to  plunge  Dolly  into  his  bed,  had  the 
brutality  to  tell  his  nephew,  in  very  plain  terms,  that  if  ever 
he  found  that  Brummagem  gent  in  Poole's  rooms  again,  Poole 
would  never  again  see  the  colour  of  Uncle  Sam's  money. 
Dolly  beginning  to  blubber,  the  good  man  relenting  patted 
him  on  the  back,  and  said,  "  But  as  soon  as  you  are  well,  I  '11 
carry  you  with  me  to  my  country-box,  and  keep  you  out  of 
harm's  way  till  I  find  you  a  wife,  who  will  comb  your  head 
for  you;"  at  which  cheering  prospect  Poole  blubbered  more 
dolefully  than  before.  On  retiring  to  his  own  lodging  in  the 
Gloucester  Coffee-house,  Uncle  Sam,  to  make  all  sure,  gave 
positive  orders  to  Poole's  landlady,  who  respected  in  Uncle 
Sam  the  man  who  might  pay  what  Poole  owed  to  her,  on  no 
account  to  let  in  any  of  Dolly's  profligate  friends,  but  es- 
pecially the  chap  he  had  found  there;  adding,  "  'T  is  as  much 
as  my  nephew's  life  is  worth;  and,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, as  much  as  your  bill  is."  Accordingly,  when  Jasper 
presented  himself  at  Poole's  door  again  that  very  evening, 
the  landlady  apprised  him  of  her  orders ;  and,  proof  to  his  in- 
sinuating remonstrances,  closed  the  door  in  his  face.  But  a 
French  chronicler  has  recorded  that  when  Henry  IV.  was  be- 
sieging Paris,  though  not  a  loaf  of  bread  could  enter  the 
walls,  love-letters  passed  between  city  and  camp  as  easily  as 
if  there  had  been  no  siege  at  all.  And  does  not  Mercury  pre- 
side over  money  as  well  as  Love?  Jasper,  spurred  on  by 
Madame  Caumartin,  who  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  ex- 
change London  for  St.  Petersburg  as  soon  as  possible,  main- 
tained a  close  and  frequent  correspondence  with  Poole  by  the 
agency  of  the  nurse,  who  luckily  was  not  above  being  bribed 
by  shillings.  Poole  continued  to  reject  the  villany  proposed 
by  Jasper;  but,  in  course  of  the  correspondence,  he  threw  out 
rather  incoherently  —  for  his  mind  began  somewhat  to  wander 
—  a  scheme  equally  flagitious,  which  Jasper,  aided  perhaps 
by  Madame  Caumartin's  yet  keener  wit,  caught  up,  and  quickly 


344  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

reduced  to  deliberate  method.  Old  Mr.  Latham,  amongst  the 
bills  he  discounted,  kept  those  of  such  more  bashful  customers 
as  stipulated  that  their  resort  to  temporary  accommodation 
should  be  maintained  a  profound  secret  in  his  own  safe. 
Amongst  these  bills  Poole  knew  that  there  was  one  for  £1,000 
given  by  a  young  nobleman  of  immense  estates,  but  so  en- 
tailed that  he  could  neither  sell  nor  mortgage,  and,  therefore, 
often  in  need  of  a  few  hundreds  for  pocket  money.  The 
nobleman's  name  stood  high.  His  fortune  was  universally 
known;  his  honour  unimpeachable.  A  bill  of  his  any  one 
would  cash  at  sight.  Could  Poole  but  obtain  that  bill!  It 
had,  he  believed,  only  a  few  weeks  yet  to  run.  Jasper  or 
Madame  Caumartin  might  get  it  discounted  even  by  Lord 
's  own  banker;  and  if  that  were  too  bold,  by  any  profes- 
sional bill-broker,  and  all  three  be  off  before  a  suspicion  could 
arise.  But  to  get  at  that  safe,  a  false  key  might  be  necessary. 
Poole  suggested  a  waxen  impression  of  the  lock.  Jasper  sent 
him  a  readier  contrivance, —  a  queer-looking  tool,  that  looked 
an  instrument  oi  torture.  All  now  necessary  was  for  Poole 
to  recover  sufficiently  to  return  to  business,  and  to  get  rid  of 
Uncle  Sam  by  a  promise  to  run  down  to  the  country  the  mo- 
ment Poole  had  conscientiously  cleared  some  necessary  arrears 
of  work.  While  this  correspondence  went  on,  Jasper  Losely 
shunned  Mrs.  Crane,  and  took  his  meals  and  spent  his  leisure 
hours  with  Madame  Caumartin.  He  needed  no  dressing-gown 
and  slippers  to  feel  himself  at  home  there.  Madame  Cau- 
martin had  really  taken  a  showy  house  in  a  genteel  street. 
Her  own  appearance  was  eminently  what  the  French  call 
distingub:  dressed  to  perfection  from  head  to  foot;  neat  and 
finished  as  an  epigram;  her  face  in  shape  like  a  thorough- 
bred cobra-capella,  —  low  smooth  frontal  widening  at  the 
summit,  chin  tapering  but  jaw  strong,  teeth  marvellously 
white,  small,  and  with  points  sharp  as  those  in  the  maw  of 
the  fish  called  the  "  Sea  Devil ; "  eyes  like  dark  emeralds,  of 
which  the  pupils,  when  she  was  angry  or  when  she  was 
scheming,  retreated  upward  towards  the  temples,  emitting  a 
luminous  green  ray  that  shot  through  space  like  the  gleam 
that  escapes  from  a  dark-lantern;  complexion  superlatively 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  345 

feminine  (call  it  not  pale  but  white,  as  if  she  lived  on 
blanched  almonds,  peach-stones,  and  arsenic);  hands  so  fine 
and  so  bloodless,  with  fingers  so  pointedly  taper  there 
seemed  stings  at  their  tips;  manners  of  one  who  had  ranged 
all  ranks  of  society  from  highest  to  lowest,  and  duped  the 
most  wary  in  each  of  them.  Did  she  please  it,  a  crown  prince 
might  have  thought  her  youth  must  have  passed  in  the  cham- 
bers of  porphyry!  Did  she  please  it,  an  old  soldier  would 
have  sworn  the  creature  had  been  a  vivandiere, —  in  age,  per- 
haps, bordering  on  forty.  She  looked  younger,  but  had  she 
been  a  hundred  and  twenty,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
wicked.  Ah,  happy  indeed  for  Sophy,  if  it  were  to  save  her 
youth  from  ever  being  fostered  in  elegant  boudoirs  by  those 
bloodless  hands,  that  the  crippled  vagabond  had  borne  her 
away  from  Arabella's  less  cruel  unkindness ;  better  far  even 
Kugge's  village  stage;  better  far  stealthy  by -lanes,  feigned 
names,  and  the  erudite  tricks  of  Sir  Isaac! 

But  still  it  is  due  even  to  Jasper  to  state  here  that,  in 
Losely's  recent  design  to  transfer  Sophy  from  Waife's  care  to 
that  of  Madame  Caumartin,  the  Sharper  harboured  no  idea  of 
a  villany  so  execrable  as  the  character  of  the  Parisienne  led 
the  jealous  Arabella  to  suspect.  His  real  object  in  getting 
the  child  at  that  time  once  more  into  his  power  was  (what- 
ever its  nature)  harmless  compared  with  the  mildest  of 
Arabella's  dark  doubts.  But  still  if  Sophy  had  been  regained, 
and  the  object,  on  regaining  her,  foiled  (as  it  probably  would 
have  been),  what  then  might  have  become  of  her, —  lost,  per- 
haps, forever,  to  Waif e, —  in  a  foreign  land  and  under  such 
guardianship?  Grave  question,  which  Jasper  Losely,  who 
exercised  so  little  foresight  in  the  paramount  question, — 
namely,  what  some  day  or  other  would  become  of  himself?  — 
was  not  likely  to  rack  his  brains  by  conjecturing! 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Crane  was  vigilant.  The  detective  police- 
officer  sent  to  her  by  Mr.  Rugge  could  not  give  her  the  infor- 
mation which  Rugge  desired,  and  which  she  did  not  longer 
need.  She  gave  the  detective  some  information  respecting 
Madame  Caumartin.  One  day  towards  the  evening  she  was 
surprised  by  a  visit  from  Uncle  Sam.  He  called  ostensibly 


346  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

to  thank  her  for  her  kindness  to  his  godson  and  nephew ;  and 
to  beg  her  not  to  be  offended  if  he  had  been  rude  to  Mr. 
Losely,  who,  he  understood  from  Dolly,  was  a  particular 
friend  of  hers.  "You  see,  ma'am,  Samuel  Dolly  is  a  weak 
young  man,  and  easily  led  astray;  but,  luckily  for  himself, 
he  has  no  money  and  no  stomach.  So  he  may  repent  in  time ; 
and  if  I  could  find  a  wife  to  manage  him,  he  has  not  a  bad 
head  for  the  main  chance,  and  may  become  a  practical  man. 
Repeatedly  I  have  told  him  he  should  go  to  prison,  but  that 
was  only  to  frighten  him ;  fact  is,  I  want  to  get  him  safe  down 
into  the  country,  and  he  don't  take  to  that.  So  I  am  forced 
to  say,  'My  box,  home-brewed  and  South-down,  Samuel 
Dolly,  or  a  Lunnon  jail  and  debtors'  allowance.'  Must  give 
a  young  man  his  choice,  my  dear  lady." 

Mrs.  Crane  observing  that  what  he  said  was  extremely  sen- 
sible, Uncle  Sam  warmed  in  his  confidence. 

"And  I  thought  I  had  him,  till  I  found  Mr.  Losely  in  his 
sick-room;  but  ever  since  that  day,  I  don't  know  how  it  is, 
the  lad  has  had  something  on  his  mind,  which  I  don't  half 
like, — cracky,  I  think,  my  dear  lady, —  cracky.  I  suspect 
that  old  nurse  passes  letters.  I  taxed  her  with  it,  and  she 
immediately  wanted  to  take  her  Bible-oath,  and  smelt  of  gin, — 
two  things  which,  taken  together,  look  guilty." 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  much  interested,  "if  Mr. 
Losely  and  Mr.  Poole  do  correspond,  what  then?" 

"That 's  what  I  want  to  know,  ma'am.  Excuse  me;  I  don't 
wish  to  disparage  Mr.  Losely,  —  a  dashing  gent,  and  nothing 
worse,  I  dare  say.  But  certain  sure  I  am  that  he  has  put  into 
Samuel  Dolly's  head  something  which  has  cracked  it!  There 
is  the  lad  now  up  and  dressed,  when  he  ought  to  be  in  bed, 
and  swearing  he  '11  go  to  old  Latham's  to-morrow,  and  that 
long  arrears  of  work  are  on  his  conscience !  Never  heard  him 
talk  of  conscience  before :  that  looks  guilty !  And  it  does  not 
frighten  him  any  longer  when  I  say  he  shall  go  to  prison  for 
his  debts ;  and  he  's  very  anxious  to  get  me  out  of  Lunnon ; 
and  when  I  threw  in  a  word  about  Mr.  Losely  (slyly,  my  good 
lady, —  just  to  see  its  effect),  he  grew  as  white  as  that  paper; 
and  then  he  began  strutting  and  swelling,  and  saying  that  Mr. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  347 

Losely  would  be  a  great  man,  and  he  should  be  a  great  man, 
and  that  he  did  not  care  for  my  money ;  he  could  get  as  much 
money  as  he  liked.  That  looks  guilty,  my  dear  lady.  And 
oh,"  cried  Uncle  Sam,  clasping  his  hands,  "I  do  fear  that  he 's 
thinking  of  something  worse  than  he  has  ever  done  before, 
and  his  brain  can't  stand  it.  And,  ma'am,  he  has  a  great  re- 
spect for  you ;  and  you  ' ve  a  friendship  for  Mr.  Losely.  Now, 
just  suppose  that  Mr.  Losely  should  have  been  thinking  of 
what  your  flash  sporting  gents  call  a  harmless  spree,  and  my 
sister's  son  should,  being  cracky,  construe  into  something 
criminal.  Oh,  Mrs.  Crane,  do  go  and  see  Mr.  Losely,  and 
tell  him  that  Samuel  Dolly  is  not  safe, —  is  not  safe! " 

"Much  better  that  I  should  go  to  your  nephew,"  said  Mrs. 
Crane ;  "  and  with  your  leave  I  will  do  so  at  once.  Let  me 
see  him  alone.  Where  shall  I  find  you  afterwards?" 

"  At  the  Gloucester  Coffee-house.  Oh,  my  dear  lady,  how 
can  I  thank  you  enough?  The  boy  can  be  nothing  to  you; 
but  to  me,  he 's  my  sister's  son, —  the  blackguard  1 " 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  DICES  laborantes  in  uno 
Penelopen  vitreamque  Circen."  —  HORACE. 

MRS.  CRANE  found  Poole  in  his  little  sitting-room,  hung 
round  with  prints  of  opera-dancers,  prize-fighters,  race-horses, 
and  the  dog  Billy.  Samuel  Dolly  was  in  full  dress.  His 
cheeks,  usually  ^o  pale,  seemed  much  flushed.  He  was  evi- 
dently in  a  state  of  high  excitement,  bowed  extremely  low  to 
Mrs.  Crane,  called  her  Countess,  asked  if  she  had  been 
lately  on  the  Continent  and  if  she  knew  Madame  Caumar- 
tin,  and  whether  the  nobility  at  St.  Petersburg  were  jolly, 
or  stuck-up  fellows,  who  gave  themselves  airs, —  not  waiting 
for  her  answer.  In  fact  his  mind  was  unquestionably 
disordered. 


348  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Arabella  Crane  abruptly  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  You  are  going  to  the  gallows, "  she  said  suddenly.  "  Down 
on  your  knees,  and  tell  me  all,  and  I  will  keep  your  secret, 
and  save  you;  lie,  and  you  are  lost!" 

Poole  burst  into  tears,  and  dropped  on  his  knees  as  he  was 
told. 

In  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Crane  knew  all  that  she  cared  to  know, 
possessed  herself  of  Losely's  letters,  and,  leaving  Poole  less 
light-headed  and  more  light-hearted,  she  hastened  to  Uncle 
Sam  at  the  Gloucester  Coffee-house.  "  Take  your  nephew  out 
of  town  this  evening,  and  do  not  let  him  from  your  sight  for 
the  next  six  months.  Hark  you,  he  will  never  be  a  good 
man;  but  you  may  save  him  from  the  hulks.  Do  so.  Take 
my  advice."  She  was  gone  before  Uncle  Sam  could  answer. 

She  next  proceeded  to  the  private  house  of  the  detective 
with  whom  she  had  before  conferred ;  this  time  less  to  give 
than  to  receive  information.  Not  half  an  hour  after  her  in- 
terview with  him,  Arabella  Crane  stood  in  the  street  wherein 
was  placed  the  showy  house  of  Madame  Caumartin.  The 
lamps  in  the  street  were  now  lighted ;  the  street,  even  at  day 
a  quiet  one,  was  comparatively  deserted.  All  the  windows 
in  the  Frenchwoman's  house  were  closed  with  shutters  and 
curtains,  except  on  the  drawing-room  floor.  From  those  the 
lights  within  streamed  over  a  balcony  filled  with  gay  plants ; 
one  of  the  casements  was  partially  open.  And  now  and  then, 
where  the  watcher  stood,  she  could  just  catch  the  glimpse  of 
a  passing  form  behind  the  muslin  draperies,  or  hear  the  sound 
of  some  louder  laugh.  In  her  dark-gray  dress  and  still  darker 
mantle,  Arabella  Crane  stood  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
those  windows.  The  rare  foot-passenger  who  brushed  by  her 
turned  involuntarily  to  glance  at  the  countenance  of  one  so 
still,  and  then  as  involuntarily  to  survey  the  house  to  which 
that  countenance  was  lifted.  No  such  observer  so  incurious 
as  not  to  hazard  conjecture  what  evil  to  that  house  was  boded 
by  the  dark  lurid  eyes  that  watched  it  with  so  fixed  a  menace. 
Thus  she  remained,  sometimes,  indeed,  moving  from  her  post, 
as  a  sentry  moves  from  his,  slowly  pacing  a  few  steps  to  and 
fro,  returning  to  the  same  place,  and  again  motionless;  thus 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  349 

she  remained  for  hours.  Evening  deepened  into  night;  night 
grew  near  to  dawn :  she  was  still  there  in  that  street,  and  still 
her  eyes  were  on  that  house.  At  length  the  door  opened 
noiselessly;  a  tall  man  tripped  forth  with  a  gay  light  step, 
and  humming  the  tune  of  a  gay  French  chanson.  As  he  came 
straight  towards  the  spot  where  Arabella  Crane  was  at  watch, 
from  her  dark  mantle  stretched  forth  her  long  arm  and  lean 
hand  and  seized  him.  He  started  and  recognized  her. 

"You  here!"  he  exclaimed,  "you! — at  such  an  hour, — 
you ! " 

"  Ay,  Jasper  Losely,  here  to  warn  you.  To-morrow  the  offi- 
cers of  justice  will  be  in  that  accursed  house.  To-morrow 
that  woman  —  not  for  her  worst  crimes,  they  elude  the  law, 
but  for  her  least  by  which  the  law  hunts  her  down  —  will  be 
a  prisoner, —  no,  you  shall  not  return  to  warn  her  as  I  warn 
you  "  (for  Jasper  here  broke  away,  and  retreated  some  steps 
towards  the  house);  "or,  if  you  do,  share  her  fate.  I  cast 
you  off." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Jasper,  halting,  till  with  slow 
steps  she  regained  his  side.  "Speak  more  plainly:  if  poor 
Madame  Caumartin  has  got  into  a  scrape,  which  I  don't  think 
likely,  what  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"  The  woman  you  call  Caumartin  fled  from  Paris  to  escape 
its  tribunals.  She  has  been  tracked;  the  French  government 
have  claimed  her  —  ho!  —  you  smile.  This  does  not  touch 
you?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

"But  there  are  charges  against  her  from  English  trades- 
men; and  if  it  be  proved  that  you  knew  her  in  her  proper 
name, — the  infamous  Gabrielle  Desmarets;  if  it  be  proved 
that  you  have  passed  off  the  French  billets  de  banque  that  she 
stole;  if  you  were  her  accomplice  in  obtaining  goods  under 
her  false  name ;  if  you,  enriched  by  her  robberies,  were  aid- 
ing and  abetting  her  as  a  swindler  here, — though  you  may  be 
safe  from  the  French  law,  will  you  be  safe  from  the  English? 
You  may  be  innocent,  Jasper  Losely;  if  so,  fear  nothing. 
You  may  be  guilty :  if  so,  hide,  or  follow  me ! " 

Jasper  paused.     His  first  impulse  was  to  trust  implicitly  to 


350  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

Mrs.  Crane,  and  lose  not  a  moment  in  profiting  by  such  coun- 
sels of  concealment  or  flight  as  an  intelligence  so  superior  to 
his  own  could  suggest.  But  suddenly  remembering  that 
Poole  had  undertaken  to  get  the  bill  for  £1,000  by  the  next 
day, — that  if  flight  were  necessary,  there  was  yet  a  chance 
of  flight  with  booty, — his  constitutional  hardihood,  and  the 
grasping  cupidity  by  which  it  was  accompanied,  made  him 
resolve  at  least  to  hazard  the  delay  of  a  few  hours.  And, 
after  all,  might  not  Mrs.  Crane  exaggerate?  Was  not  this 
the  counsel  of  a  jealous  woman?  "Pray,"  said  he,  moving 
on,  and  fixing  quick  keen  eyes  on  her  as  she  walked  by  his 
side,  "pray,  how  did  you  learn  all  these  particulars?" 

"  From  a  detective  policeman  employed  to  discover  Sophy. 
In  conferring  with  him,  the  name  of  Jasper  Losely  as  her 
legal  protector  was  of  course  stated;  that  name  was  already 
coupled  with  the  name  of  the  false  Caumartin.  Thus,  indi- 
rectly, the  child  you  would  have  consigned  to  that  woman 
saves  you  from  sharing  that  woman's  ignominy  and  doom." 

"Stuff!"  said  Jasper,  stubbornly,  though  he  winced  at  her 
words:  "I  don't,  on  reflection,  see  that  anything  can  be 
proved  against  me.  I  am  not  bound  to  know  why  a  lady 
changes  her  name,  nor  how  she  comes  by  her  money.  And 
as  to  her  credit  with  tradesmen,  —  nothing  to  speak  of : 
most  of  what  she  has  got  is  paid  for;  what  is  not  paid  for 
is  less  than  the  worth  of  her  goods.  Pooh!  I  am  not  so 
easily  frightened;  much  obliged  to  you  all  the  same.  Go 
home  now;  'tis  horridly  late.  Good-night,  or  rather  good- 
morning." 

"  Jasper,  mark  me,  if  you  see  that  woman  again ;  if  you  at- 
tempt to  save  or  screen  her, — I  shall  know,  and  you  lose  in 
me  your  last  friend,  last  hope,  last  plank  in  a  devouring 
sea!" 

These  words  were  so  solemnly  uttered  that  they  thrilled 
the  heart  of  the  reckless  man.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  screen  or 
save  her,"  he  said,  with  selfish  sincerity.  "And  after  what 
you  have  said  I  would  as  soon  enter  a  fireship  as  that  house. 
But  let  me  have  some  hours  to  consider  what  is  best  to  be 
done." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  351 

"Yes,  consider  —  I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow." 
He  went  his  way  up  the  twilight  streets  towards  a  new 
lodging  he  had  hired  not  far  from  the  showy  house.  She  drew 
her  mantle  close  round  her  gaunt  figure,  and,  taking  the  op- 
posite direction,  threaded  thoroughfares  yet  lonelier,  till  she 
gained  the  door,  and  was  welcomed  back  by  the  faithful 
Bridget. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HOPE  tells  a  flattering  tale  to  Mr.  Rugge.  He  is  undeceived  by  a  solicitor  ; 
and  left  to  mourn ;  but  in  turn,  though  unconsciously,  Mr.  Rugge  deceives 
the  solicitor,  and  the  solicitor  deceives  his  client,  —  which  is  6s.  8d.  in  the 
solicitor's  pocket. 

THE  next  morning  Arabella  Crane  was  scarcely  dressed  be- 
fore Mr.  Rugge  knocked  at  her  door.  On  the  previous  day 
the  detective  had  informed  him  that  William  and  Sophy 
Waife  were  discovered  to  have  sailed  for  America.  Frantic, 
the  unhappy  manager  hurried  away  to  the  steam-packet  office, 
and  was  favoured  by  an  inspection  of  the  books,  which  con- 
firmed the  hateful  tidings.  As  if  in  mockery  of  his  bereaved 
and  defrauded  state,  on  returning  home  he  found  a  polite 
note  from  Mr.  Gotobed,  requesting  him  to  call  at  the  office 
of  that  eminent  solicitor,  with  reference  to  a  young  actress, 
named  Sophy  Waife,  and  hinting  "that  the  visit  might  prove 
to  his  advantage!"  Dreaming  for  a  wild  moment  that  Mr. 
Losely,  conscience-stricken,  might  through  his  solicitor  pay 
back  his  £100,  he  rushed  incontinent  to  Mr.  Gotobed's  office, 
and  was  at  once  admitted  into  the  presence  of  that  stately 
practitioner. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gotobed,  with  formal 
politeness,  "  but  I  heard  a  day  or  two  ago  accidentally  from 
my  head  clerk,  who  had  learned  it  also  accidentally  from  a 
sporting  friend,  that  you  were  exhibiting  at  Humberston, 
during  the  race- week,  a  young  actress,  named  on  the  play- 


352  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

bills  (here  is  one)  'Juliet  Araminta,'  and  whom,  as  I  am  in- 
formed, you  had  previously  exhibited  in  Surrey  and  else- 
where; but  she  was  supposed  to  have  relinquished  that  earlier 
engagement,  and  left  your  stage  with  her  grandfather,  William 
Waife.  I  am  instructed  by  a  distinguished  client,  who  is 
wealthy,  and  who  from  motives  of  mere  benevolence  inter- 
ests himself  in  the  said  William  and  Sophy  Waife,  to  dis- 
cover their  residence.  Please,  therefore,  to  render  up  the 
child  to  my  charge,  apprising  me  also  of  the  address  of  her 
grandfather,  if  he  be  not  with  you;  and  without  waiting  for 
further  instructions  from  my  client,  who  is  abroad,  I  will 
venture  to  say  that  any  sacrifice  in  the  loss  of  your  juvenile 
actress  will  be  most  liberally  compensated." 

"Sir,"  cried  the  miserable  and  imprudent  Rugge,  "I  paid 
£100  for  that  fiendish  child, — a  three  years'  engagement, 
—  and  I  have  been  robbed.  Restore  me  the  £100,  and  I  will 
tell  you  where  she  is,  and  her  vile  grandfather  also." 

At  hearing  so  bad  a  character  lavished  upon  objects  recom- 
mended to  his  client's  disinterested  charity,  the  wary  solici- 
tor drew  in  his  pecuniary  horns. 

"Mr.  Rugge,"  said  he,  "I  understand  from  your  words 
that  you  cannot  place  the  child  Sophy,  alias  Juliet  Araminta, 
in  my  hands.  You  ask  £100  to  inform  me  where  she  is. 
Have  you  a  lawful  claim  on  her?  " 

"Certainly,  sir:  she  is  my  property." 

"  Then  it  is  quite  clear  that  though  you  may  know  where 
she  is,  you  cannot  get  at  her  yourself,  and  cannot,  therefore, 
place  her  in  my  hands.  Perhaps  she  's  —  in  Heaven !  " 

"Confound  her,  sir!  no  —  in  America!  or  on  the  seas  to  it." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  steam-packet  office,  and  seen 
the  names  in  their  book.  William  and  Sophy  Waife  sailed 
from  Liverpool  last  Thursday  week." 

"And  they  formed  an  engagement  with  you,  received 
your  money;  broke  the  one,  absconded  with  the  other.  Bad 
characters  indeed ! " 

"Bad!  you  may  well  say  that, —  a  set  of  swindling  scoun- 
drels, the  whole  kit  and  kin.  And  the  ingratitude ! "  con- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  353 

tinued  Rugge ;  "  I  was  more  than  a  father  to  that  child  "  (he 
began  to  whimper) ;  "  I  had  a  babe  of  my  own  once ;  died  of 
convulsions  in  teething.  I  thought  that  child  would  have 
supplied  its  place,  and  I  dreamed  of  the  York  Theatre ;  but " 
—  here  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  folds  of  a  marvellously  dirty 
red  pocket-handkerchief. 

Mr.  Gotobed  having  now,  however,  learned  all  that  he 
cared  to  learn,  and  not  being  a  soft-hearted  man  (first-rate 
solicitors  rarely  are),  here  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  said, — 

"Sir,  you  have  been  very  ill-treated,  I  perceive.  I  must 
wish  you  good-day;  I  have  an  engagement  in  the  City.  I 
cannot  help  you  back  to  your  £100,  but  accept  this  trifle  (a 
£5  note)  for  your  loss  of  time  in  calling "  (ringing  the  bell 
violently).  "Door, —  show  out  this  gentleman." 

That  evening  Mr.  Gotobed  wrote  at  length  to  Guy  Darrell, 
informing  him  that,  after  great  pains  and  prolonged  research, 
he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  ascertain  that  the  strolling 
player  and  the  little  girl  whom  Mr.  Darrell  had  so  benevo- 
lently requested  him  to  look  up  were  very  bad  characters,  and 
had  left  the  country  for  the  United  States,  as  happily  for  Eng- 
land bad  characters  were  wont  to  do. 

That  letter  reached  Guy  Darrell  when  he  was  far  away, 
amidst  the  forlorn  pomp  of  some  old  Italian  city,  and  Lionel's 
tale  of  the  little  girl  not  very  fresh  in  his  gloomy  thoughts. 
Naturally,  he  supposed  that  the  boy  had  been  duped  by  a 
pretty  face  and  his  own  inexperienced  kindly  heart.  And  so, 
and  so, — why,  so  end  all  the  efforts  of  men  who  entrust  to 
others  the  troublesome  execution  of  humane  intentions !  The 
scales  of  earthly  justice  are  poised  in  their  quivering  equilib- 
rium, not  by  huge  hundredweights,  but  by  infinitesimal 
grains,  needing  the  most  wary  caution,  the  most  considerate 
patience,  the  most  delicate  touch,  to  arrange  or  readjust.  Few 
of  our  errors,  national  or  individual,  come  from  the  design  to 
be  unjust;  most  of  them  from  sloth,  or  incapacity  to  grapple 
with  the  difficulties  of  being  just.  Sins  of  commission  may 
not,  perhaps,  shock  the  retrospect  of  conscience.  Large  and 
obtrusive  to  view  we  have  confessed,  mourned,  repented,  pos- 
sibly atoned  them.  Sins  of  omission  so  veiled  amidst  our 

VOL.  I.  —  23 


354  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

hourly  emotions, — blent,  confused,  unseen,  in  the  conven- 
tional routine  of  existence, —  alas !  could  these  suddenly  emerge 
from  their  shadow,  group  together  in  serried  mass  and  accus- 
ing order, —  alas,  alas!  would  not  the  best  of  us  then  start  in 
dismay,  and  would  not  the  proudest  humble  himself  at  the 
Throne  of  Mercy? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

JOT,  nevertheless,  does  return  to  Mr.  Rngge :  and  hope  now  inflicts  herself  on 
Mrs.  Crane;  a  very  fine-looking  hope  too,  —  six  feet  one,  —  strong  as 
Achilles,  and  as  fleet  of  foot ! 

BUT  we  have  left  Mr.  Rugge  at  Mrs.  Crane's  door;  admit 
him.  He  bursts  into  her  drawing-room  wiping  his  brows. 

"Ma'am,  they  're  off  to  America!  —  " 

"  So  I  have  heard.  You  are  fairly  entitled  to  the  return  of 
your  money  —  " 

"  Entitled,  of  course,  but  —  " 

"There  it  is;  restore  to  me  the  contract  for  the  child's 
services." 

Rugge  gazed  on  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  and  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve his  eyes.  He  darted  forth  his  hand, — the  notes  receded 
like  the  dagger  in  Macbeth.  "First  the  contract,"  said  Mrs. 
Crane.  Rugge  drew  out  his  greasy  pocket-book,  and  extracted 
the  worthless  engagement. 

"Henceforth,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you  have  no  right 
to  complain ;  and  whether  or  not  the  girl  ever  again  fall  in 
your  way,  your  claim  over  her  ceases." 

"The  gods  be  praised!  it  does,  ma'am,  I  have  had  quite 
enough  of  her.  But  you  are  every  inch  a  lady,  and  allow  me 
to  add  that  I  put  you  on  my  free  list  for  life." 

Rugge  gone,  Arabella  Crane  summoned  Bridget  to  her 
presence. 

"Lor',  miss,''   cried  Bridget,  impulsively,  "who'd  think 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  355 

you  'd  been  up  all  night  raking !  I  have  not  seen  you  look  so 
well  this  many  a  year." 

"Ah,"  said  Arabella  Crane,  "I  will  tell  you  why.  I  have 
done  what  for  many  a  year  I  never  thought  I  should  do  again, 

—  a  good  action.     That  child,  —  that  Sophy, —  do  you  remem- 
ber how  cruelly  I  used  her?  " 

"Oil,  miss,  don't  go  for  to  blame  yourself;  you  fed  her, 
you  clothed  her,  when  her  own  father,  the  villing,  sent  her 
away  from  hisself  to  you, — you  of  all  people,  you.  How 
could  you  be  caressing  and  fawning  on  his  child, —  their 
child?  " 

Mrs.  Crane  hung  her  head  gloomily.  "What  is  past  is 
past.  I  have  lived  to  save  that  child,  and  a  curse  seems 
lifted  from  my  soul.  Now  listen.  I  shall  leave  London  — 
England  —  probably  this  evening.  You  will  keep  this  house ; 
it  will  be  ready  for  me  any  moment  I  return.  The  agent  who 
collects  my  house-rents  will  give  you  money  as  you  want  it. 
Stint  not  yourself,  Bridget.  I  have  been  saving  and  saving 
and  saving  for  dreary  years, — nothing  else  to  interest  me, — 
and  I  am  richer  than  I  seem." 

"But  where  are  you  going,  miss?"  said  Bridget,  slowly  re- 
covering from  the  stupefaction  occasioned  by  her  mistress's 
announcement. 

"I  don't  know;  I  don't  care." 

"  Oh,  gracious  stars !  is  it  with  that  dreadful  Jasper  Losely  ? 

—  it  is,  it  is.     You  are  crazed,  you  are  bewitched,  miss!  " 
"Possibly  I  am  crazed, — possibly  bewitched;   but  I  take 

that  man's  life  to  mine  as  a  penance  for  all  the  evil  mine  has 
ever  known;  and  a  day  or  two  since  I  should  have  said,  with 
rage  and  shame,  'I  cannot  help  it;  I  loathe  myself  that  I  can 
care  what  becomes  of  him.'  Now,  without  rage,  without 
shame,  I  say,  'The  man  whom  I  once  so  loved  shall  not  die 
on  a  gibbet  if  I  can  help  it;  and,  please  Heaven,  help  it  I 
will.'" 

The  grim  woman  folded  her  arms  on  her  breast,  and  raising 
her  head  to  its  full  height,  there  was  in  her  face  and  air  a 
stern  gloomy  grandeur,  which  could  not  have  been  seen  with- 
out a  mixed  sensation  of  compassion  and  awe. 


356  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

"Go  now,  Bridget;  I  have  said  all.  He  will  be  here  soon: 
he  will  come;  he  must  come;  he  has  no  choice;  and  then  — 
and  then  — "  she  closed  her  eyes,  bowed  her  head,  and 
shivered. 

Arabella  Crane  was,  as  usual,  right  in  her  predictions. 
Before  noon  Jasper  came, —  came,  not  with  his  jocund  swag- 
ger, but  with  that  sidelong  sinister  look  —  of  the  man  whom 
the  world  cuts  —  triumphantly  restored  to  its  former  place  in 
his  visage.  Madame  Caumartin  had  been  arrested;  Poole 
had  gone  into  the  country  with  Uncle  Sam;  Jasper  had  seen 
a  police-officer  at  the  door  of  his  own  lodgings.  He  slunk 
away  from  the  fashionable  thoroughfares,  slunk  to  the  re- 
cesses of  Podden  Place,  slunk  into  Arabella  Crane's  prim 
drawing-room,  and  said  sullenly,  "  All  is  up ;  here  I  am !  " 

Three  days  afterwards,  in  a  quiet  street  in  a  quiet  town  of 
Belgium, —  wherein  a  sharper,  striving  to  live  by  his  profes- 
sion, would  soon  become  a  skeleton, —  in  a  commodious  airy 
apartment,  looking  upon  a  magnificent  street,  the  reverse  of 
noisy,  Jasper  Losely  sat  secure,  innocuous,  and  profoundly 
miserable.  In  another  house,  the  windows  of  which  —  facing 
those  of  Jasper's  sitting-room,  from  an  upper  story  —  com- 
manded so  good  a  view  therein  that  it  placed  him  under  a 
surveillance  akin  to  that  designed  by  Mr.  Bentham's  reforma- 
tory Panopticon,  sat  Arabella  Crane.  Whatever  her  real 
feelings  towards  Jasper  Losely  (and  what  those  feelings 
were  no  virile  pen  can  presume  authoritatively  to  define ;  for 
lived  there  ever  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood  a  woman?), 
or  whatever  in  earlier  life  might  have  been  their  reciprocated 
vows  of  eternal  love, — not  only  from  the  day  that  Jasper,  on 
his  return  to  his  native  shores,  presented  himself  in  Podden 
Place,  had  their  intimacy  been  restricted  to  the  austerest 
bonds  of  friendship,  but  after  Jasper  had  so  rudely  declined 
the  hand  which  now  fed  him,  Arabella  Crane  had  probably 
perceived  that  her  sole  chance  of  retaining  intellectual  power 
over  his  lawless  being  necessitated  the  utter  relinquishment 
of  every  hope  or  project  that  could  expose  her  again  to  his 
contempt.  Suiting  appearances  to  reality,  the  decorum  of  a 
separate  house  was  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  that  au- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  357 

thority  with  which  the  rigid  nature  of  their  intercourse  in- 
vested her.  The  additional  cost  strained  her  pecuniary 
resources,  but  she  saved  in  her  own  accommodation  in  order 
to  leave  Jasper  no  cause  to  complain  of  any  stinting  in  his. 
There,  then,  she  sat  by  her  window,  herself  unseen,  eying 
him  in  his  opposite  solitude,  accepting  for  her  own  life  a 
barren  sacrifice,  but  a  jealous  sentinel  on  his.  Meditating  as 
she  sat  and  as  she  eyed  him, —  meditating  what  employment 
she  could  invent,  with  the  bribe  of  emoluments  to  be  paid 
furtively  by  her,  for  those  strong  hands  that  could  have  felled 
an  ox,  but  were  nerveless  in  turning  an  honest  penny,  and 
for  that  restless  mind  hungering  for  occupation,  and  with 
the  digestion  of  an  ostrich  for  dice  and  debauch,  riot  and 
fraud,  but  queasy  as  an  exhausted  dyspeptic  at  the  reception 
of  one  innocent  amusement,  one  honourable  toil.  But  while 
that  woman  still  schemes  how  to  rescue  from  hulks  or  halter 
that  execrable  man,  who  shall  say  that  he  is  without  a  chance? 
A  chance  he  has:  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


BOOK    V. 

CHAPTER  I. 
ENVY  will  be  a  science  when  it  learns  the  use  of  the  microscope. 

WHEN  leaves  fall  and  flowers  fade,  great  people  are  found 
in  their  country-seats.  Look! — that  is  Montfort  Court, —  a 
place  of  regal  magnificence,  so  far  as  extent  of  pile  and  am- 
plitude of  domain  could  satisfy  the  pride  of  ownership,  or 
inspire  the  visitor  with  the  respect  due  to  wealth  and  power. 
An  artist  could  have  made  nothing  of  it.  The  Sumptuous 
everywhere;  the  Picturesque  nowhere.  The  house  was  built 
in  the  reign  of  George  I.,  when  first  commenced  that  horror 
of  the  beautiful,  as  something  in  bad  taste,  which,  agreeably 
to  our  natural  love  of  progress,  progressively  advanced 
through  the  reigns  of  succeeding  Georges.  An  enormous 
facade,  in  dull  brown  brick;  two  wings  and  a  centre,  with 
double  flights  of  steps  to  the  hall-door  from  the  carriage- 
sweep.  No  trees  allowed  to  grow  too  near  the  house;  in 
front,  a  stately  flat  with  stone  balustrades.  But  wherever 
the  eye  turned,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  park,  miles 
upon  miles  of  park;  not  a  cornfield  in  sight,  not  a  roof -tree, 
not  a  spire,  only  those  lata  silentia, —  still  widths  of  turf, 
and,  somewhat  thinly  scattered  and  afar,  those  groves  of 
giant  trees.  The  whole  prospect  so  vast  and  so  monotonous 
that  it  never  tempted  you  to  take  a  walk.  No  close-neigh- 
bouring poetic  thicket  into  which  to  plunge,  uncertain  whither 
you  would  emerge;  no  devious  stream  to  follow.  The  very 
deer,  fat  and  heavy,  seemed  bored  by  pastures  it  would  take 
them  a  week  to  traverse.  People  of  moderate  wishes  and 
modest  fortunes  never  envied  Montfort  Court :  they  admired 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  859 

it;  they  were  proud  to  say  they  had  seen  it.  But  never  did 
they  say  — 

"  Oh,  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile !  " 

Not  so,  very,  very  great  people!  —  they  rather  coveted  than 
admired.  Those  oak  trees  so  large,  yet  so  undecayed;  that 
park,  eighteen  miles  at  least  in  circumference;  that  solid 
palace  which,  without  inconvenience,  could  entertain  and 
stow  away  a  king  and  his  whole  court;  in  short,  all  that  evi- 
dence of  a  princely  territory  and  a  weighty  rent-roll  made 
English  dukes  respectfully  envious,  and  foreign  potentates 
gratifyingly  jealous. 

But  turn  from  the  front.  Open  the  gate  in  that  stone  bal- 
ustrade. Come  southward  to  the  garden  side  of  the  house. 
Lady  Montfort's  flower-garden.  Yes;  not  so  dull! — flowers, 
even  autumnal  flowers,  enliven  any  sward.  Still,  on  so 
large  a  scale,  and  so  little  relief;  so  little  mystery  about 
those  broad  gravel-walks;  not  a  winding  alley  anywhere. 
Oh,  for  a  vulgar  summer-house;  for  some  alcove,  all  honey- 
suckle and  ivy!  But  the  dahlias  are  splendid!  Very  true; 
on]}',  dahlias,  at  the  best,  are  such  uninteresting  prosy 
things.  What  poet  ever  wrote  upon  a  dahlia!  Surely  Lady 
Montfort  might  have  introduced  a  little  more  taste  here, 
shown  a  little  more  fancy!  Lady  Montfort!  I  should  like 
to  see  my  lord's  face  if  Lady  Montfort  took  any  such  liberty. 
But  there  is  Lady  Montfort  walking  slowly  along  that  broad, 
broad,  broad  gravel- walk;  those  splendid  dahlias,  on  either 
side,  in  their  set  parterres.  There  she  walks,  in  full  evidence 
from  all  those  sixty  remorseless  windows  on  the  garden  front, 
each  window  exactly  like  the  other.  There  she  walks,  look- 
ing wistfully  to  the  far  end  ('t  Is  a  long  way  off),  where,  hap- 
pily, there  is  a  wicket  that  carries  a  persevering  pedestrian  out 
of  sight  of  the  sixty  windows  into  shady  walks,  towards  the 
banks  of  that  immense  piece  of  water,  two  miles  from  the 
house.  My  lord  has  not  returned  from  his  moor  in  Scotland ; 
my  lady  is  alone.  No  company  in  the  house :  it  is  like  say- 
ing, "No  acquaintance  in  a  city."  But  the  retinue  is  full. 
Though  she  dined  alone  she  might,  had  she  pleased,  have  had 


360  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

almost  as  many  servants  to  gaze  upon  her  as  there  were  win- 
dows now  staring  at  her  lonely  walk  with  their  glassy  spectral 
eyes. 

Just  as  Lady  Montfort  gains  the  wicket  she  is  overtaken  by 
a  visitor,  walking  fast  from  the  gravel  sweep  by  the  front 
door,  where  he  has  dismounted,  where  he  has  caught  sight  of 
her:  any  one  so  dismounting  might  have  caught  sight  of  her; 
could  not  help  it.  Gardens  so  fine  were  made  on  purpose  for 
fine  persons  walking  in  them  to  be  seen. 

"Ah,  Lady  Montfort,"  said  the  visitor,  stammering  pain- 
fully, "I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  at  home." 

"  At  home,  George ! "  said  the  lady,  extending  her  hand ; 
"where  else  is  it  likely  that  I  should  be  found?  But  how 
pale  you  are!  What  has  happened? " 

She  seated  herself  on  a  bench,  under  a  cedar-tree,  just 
without  the  wicket;  and  George  Morley,  our  old  friend  the 
Oxonian,  seated  himself  by  her  side  familiarly,  but  with  a 
certain  reverence.  Lady  Montfort  was  a  few  years  older  than 
himself,  his  cousin :  he  had  known  her  from  his  childhood. 

"What  has  happened!"  he  repeated;  "nothing  new.  I 
have  just  come  from  visiting  the  good  bishop." 

"He  does  not  hesitate  to  ordain  you?" 

"No;  but  I  shall  never  ask  him  to  do  so." 

"My  dear  cousin,  are  you  not  over-scrupulous?  You  would 
be  an  ornament  to  the  Church,  sufficient  in  all  else  to  justify 
your  compulsory  omission  of  one  duty,  which  a  curate  could 
perform  for  you." 

Morley  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  One  duty  omitted !  "  said 
he.  "But  is  it  not  that  duty  which  distinguishes  the  priest 
from  the  layman?  and  how  far  extends  that  duty?  Where- 
ever  there  needs  a  voice  to  speak  the  word, — not  in  the  pulpit 
only,  but  at  the  hearth,  by  the  sick-bed, —  there  should  be  the 
Pastor!  No:  I  cannot,  I  ought  not,  I  dare  not!  Incompe- 
tent as  the  labourer,  how  can  I  be  worthy  of  the  hire?"  It 
took  him  long  to  bring  out  these  words :  his  emotion  increased 
his  infirmity.  Lady  Montfort  listened  with  an  exquisite  re- 
spect visible  in  her  compassion,  and  paused  long  before  she 
answered. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  3G3 

good  thing,  but  that  a  very  good  thing  should  not  lose  a 
Vipont  Morley  of  high  academical  distinction, —  a  Vipont 
Morley  who  might  be  a  bishop.  He  therefore  drew  up  an 
admirable  letter,  which  the  Marquess  signed, —  that  the  Mar- 
quess should  take  the  trouble  of  copying  it  was  out  of  the 
question, — wherein  Lord  Montfort  was  made  to  express  great 
admiration  of  the  disinterested  delicacy  of  sentiment,  which 
proved  George  Vipont  Morley  to  be  still  more  fitted  to  the 
cure  of  souls;  and,  placing  rooms  at  Montfort  Court  at  his 
service  (the  Marquess  not  being  himself  there  at  the  mo- 
ment), suggested  that  George  should  talk  the  matter  over 
with  the  present  incumbent  of  Humberston  (that  town  was 
not  many  miles  distant  from  Montfort  Court),  who,  though 
he  had  no  impediment  in  his  speech,  still  never  himself 
preached  nor  read  prayers,  owing  to  an  affection  of  the 
trachea,  and  who  was,  nevertheless,  a  most  efficient  clergy- 
man. George  Morley,  therefore,  had  gone  down  to  Montfort 
Court  some  months  ago,  just  after  his  interview  with  Mrs. 
Crane.  He  had  then  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  a  week 
or  two  with  the  Kev.  Mr.  Allsop,  the  Eector  of  Humberston; 
a  clergyman  of  the  old  school,  a  fair  scholar,  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman, a  man  of  the  highest  honour,  good-natured,  charita- 
ble, but  who  took  pastoral  duties  much  more  easily  than  good 
clergymen  of  the  new  school  —  be  they  high  or  low  —  are  dis- 
posed to  do.  Mr.  Allsop,  who  was  then  in  his  eightieth  year, 
a  bachelor  with  a  very  good  fortune  of  his  own,  was  perfectly 
willing  to  fulfil  the  engagement  on  which  he  held  his  living, 
and  render  it  up  to  George ;  but  he  was  touched  by  the  ear- 
nestness with  which  George  assured  him  that  at  all  events  he 
would  not  consent  to  displace  the  venerable  incumbent  from 
a  tenure  he  had  so  long  and  honourably  held,  and  would  wait 
till  the  living  was  vacated  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature. 
Mr.  Allsop  conceived  a  warm  affection  for  the  young  scholar. 
He  had  a  grand-niece  staying  with  him  on  a  visit,  who  less 
openly,  but  not  less  warmly,  shared  that  affection;  and  with 
her  George  Morley  fell  shyly  and  timorously  in  love.  With 
that  living  he  would  be  rich  enough  to  marry;  without  it,  no. 
Without  it  he  had  nothing  but  a  fellowship,  which  matri- 


364  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

mony  would  forfeit,  and  the  scanty  portion  of  a  country 
squire's  younger  son.  The  young  lady  herself  was  dower- 
less,  for  Allsop's  fortune  was  so  settled  that  no  share  of  it 
would  come  to  his  grand-niece, —  another  reason  for  con- 
science to  gulp  down  that  unhappy  impediment  of  speech. 
Certainly,  during  this  visit,  Morley's  scruples  relaxed;  but 
when  he  returned  home  they  came  back  with  greater  force 
than  ever, — with  greater  force,  because  he  felt  that  now  not 
only  a  spiritual  ambition,  but  a  human  love  was  a  casuist  in 
favour  of  self-interest.  He  had  returned  on  a  visit  to  Hum- 
berston  Rectory  about  a  week  previous  to  the  date  of  this 
chapter;  the  niece  was  not  there.  Sternly  he  had  forced 
himself  to  examine  a  little  more  closely  into  the  condition  of 
the  flock  which  (if  he  accepted  the  charge)  he  would  have  to 
guide,  and  the  duties  that  devolved  upon  a  chief  pastor  in  a 
populous  trading  town.  He  became  appalled.  Humberston, 
like  most  towns  under  the  political  influence  of  a  great  House, 
was  rent  by  parties, — one  party,  who  succeeded  in  returning 
one  of  the  two  members  for  Parliament,  all  for  the  House  of 
Montfort;  the  other  party,  who  returned  also  their  member, 
all  against  it.  By  one  half  the  town,  whatever  came  from 
Montfort  Court  was  sure  to  be  regarded  with  a  most  malig- 
nant and  distorted  vision.  Meanwhile,  though  Mr.  Allsop 
was  popular  with  the  higher  classes  #nd  with  such  of  the  ex- 
treme poor  as  his  charity  relieved,  his  pastoral  influence  gen- 
erally was  a  dead  letter.  His  curate,  who  preached  for  him 
—  a  good  young  man,  but  extremely  dull  —  was  not  one  of 
those  preachers  who  fill  a  church.  Tradesmen  wanted  an 
excuse  to  stay  away  or  choose  another  place  of  worship;  and 
they  contrived  to  hear  some  passages  in  the  sermons  —  over 
which,  while  the  curate  mumbled,  they  habitually  slept  — 
that  they  declared  to  be  "Puseyite."  The  church  became  de- 
serted ;  and  about  the  same  time  a  very  eloquent  Dissenting 
minister  appeared  at  Humberston,  and  even  professed  Church- 
folks  went  to  hear  him.  George  Morley,  alas !  perceived  that 
at  Humberston,  if  the  Church  there  were  to  hold  her  own,  a 
powerful  and  popular  preacher  was  essentially  required.  His 
mind  was  now  made  up.  At  Carr  Vipont's  suggestion  the 


WHAT  "WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  365 

bishop  of  the  diocese,  being  then  at  his  palace,  had  sent  to 
see  him;  and,  while  granting  the  force  of  his  scruples,  had 
yet  said,  "Mine  is  the  main  responsibility.  But  if  you  ask 
me  to  ordain  you,  I  will  do  so  without  hesitation;  for  if  the 
Church  wants  preachers,  it  also  wants  deep  scholars  and  vir- 
tuous pastors."  Fresh  from  this  interview,  George  Morley 
came  to  announce  to  Lady  Montfort  that  his  resolve  was  un- 
shaken. She,  I  have  said,  paused  long  before  she  answered. 
"George,"  she  began  at  last,  in  a  voice  so  touchingly  sweet 
that  its  very  sound  was  balm  to  a  wounded  spirit,  "  I  must 
not  argue  with  you :  I  bow  before  the  grandeur  of  your  mo- 
tives, and  I  will  not  say  that  you  are  not  right.  One  thing  I 
do  feel,  that  if  you  thus  sacrifice  your  inclinations  and  inter- 
ests from  scruples  so  pure  and  holy,  you  will  never  be  to  be 
pitied;  you  will  never  know  regret.  Poor  or  rich,  single  or 
wedded,  a  soul  that  so  seeks  to  reflect  heaven  will  be  serene 
and  blessed."  Thus  she  continued  to  address  him  for  some 
time,  he  all  the  while  inexpressibly  soothed  and  comforted; 
then  gradually  she  insinuated  hopes  even  of  a  worldly  and 
temporal  kind, —  literature  was  left  to  him, — the  scholar's 
pen,  if  not  the  preacher's  voice.  In  literature  he  might 
make  a  career  that  would  lead  on  to  fortune.  There  were 
places  also  in  the  public  service  to  which  a  defect  in  speech 
was  no  obstacle.  She  knew  his  secret,  modest  attachment; 
she  alluded  to  it  just  enough  to  encourage  constancy  and  re- 
buke despair.  As  she  ceased,  his  admiring  and  grateful  con- 
sciousness of  his  cousin's  rare  qualities  changed  the  tide  of 
his  emotions  towards  her  from  himself,  and  he  exclaimed 
with  an  earnestness  that  almost  wholly  subdued  his  stutter, — 

"  What  a  counsellor  you  are !  what  a  soother !  If  Montfort 
were  but  less  prosperous  or  more  ambitious,  what  a  treasure, 
either  to  console  or  to  sustain,  in  a  mind  like  yours !  " 

As  those  words  were  said,  you  might  have  seen  at  once 
why  Lady  Montfort  was  called  haughty  and  reserved.  Her 
lip  seemed  suddenly  to  snatch  back  its  sweet  smile;  her  dark 
eye,  before  so  purely,  softly  friend-like,  became  coldly  dis- 
tant; the  tones  of  her  voice  were  not  the  same  as  she 
answered, — 


366  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"  Lord  Montfort  values  me,  as  it  is,  far  beyond  my  merits : 
far,"  she  added  with  a  different  intonation,  gravely  mournful. 

"Forgive  me;  I  have  displeased  you.  I  did  not  mean  it. 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  presume  either  to  disparage  Lord 
Montfort  —  or  —  or  to  —  "  he  stopped  short,  saving  the  hi- 
atus by  a  convenient  stammer.  "Only,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "  only  forgive  me  this  once.  Recollect  I  was  a  little 
boy  when  you  were  a  young  lady,  and  I  have  pelted  you  with 
snowballs,  and  called  you  'Caroline."  Lady  Montfort  sup- 
pressed a  sigh,  and  gave  the  young  scholar  back  her  gracious 
smile,  but  not  a  smile  that  would  have  permitted  him  to  call 
her  "Caroline"  again.  She  remained,  indeed,  a  little  more 
distant  than  usual  during  the  rest  of  their  interview,  which 
was  not  much  prolonged;  for  Morley  felt  annoyed  with  him- 
self that  he  had  so  indiscreetly  offended  her,  and  seized  an 
excuse  to  escape.  "By  the  by,"  said  he,  "I  have  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Carr  Vipont,  asking  me  to  give  him  a  sketch  for  a 
Gothic  bridge  to  the  water  yonder.  I  will,  with  your  leave, 
walk  down  and  look  at  the  proposed  site.  Only  do  say  that 
you  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you,  cousin  George,  oh,  yes !  One  word  only :  it 
is  true  you  were  a  child  still  when  I  fancied  I  was  a  woman, 
and  you  have  a  right  to  talk  to  me  upon  all  things,  except 
those  that  relate  to  me  and  Lord  Montfort;  unless,  indeed," 
she  added  with  a  bewitching  half  laugh,  "  unless  you  ever  see 
cause  to  scold  me,  there.  Good-by,  my  cousin,  and  in  turn 
forgive  me,  if  I  was  so  petulant.  The  Caroline  you  pelted 
with  snowballs  was  always  a  wayward,  impulsive  creature, 
quick  to  take  offence,  to  misunderstand,  and  —  to  repent. " 

Back  into  the  broad,  broad  gravel-walk,  walked,  more  slowly 
than  before,  Lady  Montfort.  Again  the  sixty  ghastly  win- 
dows stared  at  her  with  all  their  eyes ;  back  from  the  gravel- 
walk,  through  a  side-door  into  the  pompous  solitude  of  the 
stately  house;  across  long  chambers,  where  the  mirrors  re- 
flected her  form,  and  the  huge  chairs,  in  their  flaunting  dam- 
ask and  flaring  gold,  stood  stiff  on  desolate  floors;  into  her 
own  private  room, —  neither  large  nor  splendid  that;  plain 
chintzes,  quiet  book  shelves.  She  need  not  have  been  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  367 

Marchioness  of  Montfort  to  inhabit  a  room  as  pleasant  and  as 
luxurious.  And  the  rooms  that  she  could  only  have  owned  as 
marchioness,  what  were  those  worth  to  her  happiness?  I 
know  not.  "Nothing,"  fine  ladies  will  perhaps  answer.  Yet 
those  same  fine  ladies  will  contrive  to  dispose  their  daughters 
to  answer,  "All."  In  her  own  room  Lady  Montfort  sank  on 
her  chair;  wearily,  wearily  she  looked  at  the  clock;  wearily 
at  the  books  on  the  shelves,  at  the  harp  near  the  window. 
Then  she  leaned  her  face  on  her  hand,  and  that  face  was  so 
sad,  and  so  humbly  sad,  that  you  would  have  wondered  how 
any  one  could  call  Lady  Montfort  proud. 

"Treasure!  I!  I!  worthless,  fickle,  credulous  fool!  — 
I!  I!" 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  entered  with  the  letters  by  the 
afternoon  post.  That  great  house  contrived  to  worry  itself 
with  two  posts  a  day.  A  royal  command  to  Windsor  — 

"I  shall  be  more  alone  in  a  court  than  here,"  murmured 
Lady  Montfort. 


CHAPTEE  II. 
TRULY  saith  the  proverb,  "  Much  corn  lies  under  the  straw  that  is  not  seen." 

MEANWHILE  George  Morley  followed  the  long  shady  walk, 
—  very  handsome  walk,  full  of  prize  roses  and  rare  exotics, — 
artificially  winding  too, — walk  so  well  kept  that  it  took 
thirty -four  men  to  keep  it, — noble  walk,  tiresome  walk, — 
till  it  brought  him  to  the  great  piece  of  water,  which,  per- 
haps, four  times  in  the  year  was  visited  by  the  great  folks  in 
the  Great  House.  And  being  thus  out  of  the  immediate  pat- 
ronage of  fashion,  the  great  piece  of  water  really  looked  nat- 
ural, companionable,  refreshing:  you  began  to  breathe;  to 
unbutton  your  waistcoat,  loosen  your  neckcloth,  quote  Chaucer, 
if  you  could  recollect  him,  or  Cowper,  or  Shakspeare,  or 
Thomson's  "  Seasons ;  "  in  short,  any  scraps  of  verse  that  came 
into  your  head, — as  your  feet  grew  joyously  entangled  with 


858 

fern;  as  the  trees  grouped  forest-like  before  and  round  you; 
trees  which  there,  being  out  of  sight,  were  allowed  to  grow 
too  old  to  be  worth  five  shillings  a  piece,  moss-grown,  hollow- 
trunked,  some  pollarded, — trees  invaluable!  Ha,  the  hare! 
How  she  scuds !  See,  the  deer  marching  down  to  the  water- 
side. What  groves  of  bulrushes !  islands  of  water-lily !  And 
to  throw  a  Gothic  bridge  there,  bring  a  great  gravel  road  over 
the  bridge !  Oh,  shame,  shame ! 

So  would  have  said  the  scholar,  for  he  had  a  true  sentiment 
for  Nature,  if  the  bridge  had  not  clean  gone  out  of  his  head. 

Wandering  alone,  he  came  at  last  to  the  most  umbrageous 
and  sequestered  bank  of  the  wide  water,  closed  round  on 
every  side  by  brushwood,  or  still,  patriarchal  trees. 

Suddenly  he  arrested  his  steps;  an  idea  struck  him, — one 
of  those  old,  whimsical,  grotesque  ideas  which  often  when  we 
are  alone  come  across  us,  even  in  our  quietest  or  most  anxious 
moods.  Was  his  infirmity  really  incurable?  Elocution  mas- 
ters had  said  certainly  not;  but  they  had  done  him  no  good. 
Yet  had  not  the  greatest  orator  the  world  ever  knew  a  defect 
in  utterance?  He,  too,  Demosthenes,  had,  no  doubt,  paid 
fees  to  elocution  masters,  the  best  in  Athens,  where  elocution 
masters  must  have  studied  their  art  ad  unguem,  and  the  de- 
fect had  baffled  them.  But  did  Demosthenes  despair?  No, 
he  resolved  to  cure  himself, —  how?  Was  it  not  one  of  his 
methods  to  fill  his  mouth  with  pebbles,  and  practise  manfully 
to  the  roaring  sea?  George  Morley  had  never  tried  the  effect 
of  pebbles.  Was  there  any  virtue  in  them?  Why  not  try? 
No  sea  there,  it  is  true ;  but  a  sea  was  only  useful  as  repre- 
senting the  noise  of  a  stormy  democratic  audience.  To  rep- 
resent a  peaceful  congregation  that  still  sheet  of  water  would 
do  as  well.  Pebbles  there  were  in  plenty  just  by  that  grav- 
elly cove,  near  which  a  young  pike  lay  sunning  his  green 
back.  Half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  the  scholar  picked  up  a 
handful  of  pebbles,  wiped  them  from  sand  and  mould,  in- 
serted them  between  his  teeth  cautiously,  and,  looking  round 
to  assure  himself  that  none  were  by,  began  an  extempore  dis- 
course. So  interested  did  he  become  in  that  classical  experi- 
ment, that  he  might  have  tortured  the  air  and  astonished  the 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  369 

magpies  (three  of  whom  from  a  neighbouring  thicket  listened 
perfectly  spell-bound)  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  when 
seized  with  shame  at  the  ludicrous  impotence  of  his  exer- 
tions, with  despair  that  so  wretched  a  barrier  should  stand 
between  his  mind  and  its  expression,  he  flung  away  the  peb- 
bles, and  sinking  on  the  ground,  he  fairly  wept,  wept  like  a 
baffled  child. 

The  fact  was,  that  Morley  had  really  the  temperament  of 
an  orator;  he  had  the  orator's  gifts  in  warmth  of  passion, 
rush  of  thought,  logical  arrangement;  there  was  in  him  the 
genius  of  a  great  preacher.  He  felt  it, — he  knew  it;  and  in 
that  despair  which  only  genius  knows  when  some  pitiful 
cause  obstructs  its  energies  and  strikes  down  its  powers, 
making  a  confidant  of  Solitude  he  wept  loud  and  freely. 

"Do  not  despond,  sir,  I  undertake  to  cure  you,"  said  a 
voice  behind. 

George  started  up  in  confusion;  a  man,  elderly,  but  fresh 
and  vigorous,  stood  beside  him,  in  a  light  fustian  jacket,  a 
blue  apron,  and  with  rushes  in  his  hands,  which  he  continued 
to  plait  together  nimbly  and  deftly  as  he  bowed  to  the  startled 
scholar. 

"I  was  in  the  shade  of  the  thicket  yonder,  sir;  pardon  me, 
I  could  not  help  hearing  you." 

The  Oxonian  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared  at  the  man  with  a 
vague  impression  that  he  had  seen  him  before, —  when? 
where? 

"You  can  cure  me,"  he  stuttered  out;  "what  of?  —  the 
folly  of  trying  to  speak  in  public?  Thank  you,  I  am  cured." 

"Nay,  sir,  you  see  before  you  a  man  who  can  make  you  a 
very  good  speaker.  Your  voice  is  naturally  fine.  I  repeat, 
I  can  cure  a  defect  which  is  not  in  the  organ,  but  in  the 
management ! " 

"You  can!  you  —  who  and  what  are  you?" 

"A  basketmaker,  sir;  I  hope  for  your  custom." 

"Surely  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen  you?" 

"True,  you  once  kindly  suffered  me  to  borrow  a  resting- 
place    on   your    father's    land.      One    good    turn    deserves 
another." 
VOL.  i.  —  24 


370  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

At  that  moment  Sir  Isaac  peered  through  the  brambles, 
and  restored  to  his  original  whiteness,  and  relieved  from  his 
false,  horned  ears,  marched  gravely  towards  the  water,  sniffed 
at  the  scholar,  slightly  wagged  his  tail,  and  buried  himself 
amongst  the  reeds  in  search  of  a  water-rat  he  had  therein 
disturbed  a  week  before,  and  always  expected  to  find  again. 

The  sight  of  the  dog  immediately  cleared  up  the  cloud  in 
the  scholar's  memory;  but  with  recognition  came  back  a  keen 
curiosity  and  a  sharp  pang  of  remorse. 

"And  your  little  girl?"  he  asked,  looking  down  abashed. 

"Better  than  she  was  when  we  last  met.  Providence  is  so 
kind  to  us." 

Poor  Waife !  He  never  guessed  that  to  the  person  he  thus 
revealed  himself  he  owed  the  grief  for  Sophy's  abduction. 
He  divined  no  reason  for  the  scholar's  flushing  cheek  and 
embarrassed  manner. 

"Yes,  sir,  we  have  just  settled  in  this  neighbourhood.  I 
have  a  pretty  cottage  yonder  at  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
and  near  the  park  pales.  I  recognized  you  at  once;  and  as  I 
heard  you  just  now,  I  called  to  mind  that  when  we  met  be- 
fore, you  said  your  calling  should  be  the  Church,  were  it  not 
for  your  difficulty  in  utterance;  and  I  said  to  myself,  'No  bad 
thing  those  pebbles,  if  his  utterance  were  thick,  which  is  it 
not ; '  and  I  have  not  a  doubt,  sir,  that  the  true  fault  of 
Demosthenes,  whom  I  presume  you  are  imitating,  was  that 
he  spoke  through  his  nose." 

"Eh! "  said  the  scholar,  "through  his  nose?  I  never  knew 
that?  — and  I  —  " 

"  And  you  are  trying  to  speak  without  lungs ;  that  is  with- 
out air  in  them.  You  don't  smoke,  I  presume?" 

"No;  certainly  not.'*' 

"You  must  learn;  speak  between  each  slow  puff  of  your 
pipe.  All  you  want  is  time, — time  to  quiet  the  nerves,  time 
to  think,  time  to  breathe.  The  moment  you  begin  to  stam- 
mer, stop,  fill  the  lungs  thus,  then  try  again!  It  is  only  a 
clever  man  who  can  learn  to  write, — that  is,  to  compose;  but 
any  fool  can  be  taught  to  speak.  Courage !  " 

"If  you  really  can  teach  me,"  cried  the  learned  man,  for- 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  371 

getting  all  self-reproach  for  his  betrayal  of  Waife  to  Mrs. 
Crane  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  hope  that  sprang  up 
within  him,  "  if  you  can  teach  me ;  if  I  can  but  con  —  con  — 
con  —  conq  —  " 

"Slowly,  slowly,  breath  and  time;  take  a  whiff  from  my 
pipe;  that's  right.  Yes,  you  can  conquer  the  impediment." 

"  Then  I  will  be  the  best  friend  to  you  that  man  ever  had. 
There  's  my  hand  on  it." 

"  I  take  it,  but  I  ask  leave  to  change  the  parties  in  the  con- 
tract. I  don't  want  a  friend:  I  don't  deserve  one.  You'll 
be  a  friend  to  my  little  girl  instead;  and  if  ever  I  ask  you  to 
help  me  in  aught  for  her  welfare  and  happiness  —  " 

"  I  will  help,  heart  and  soul !  slight  indeed  any  service  to 
her  or  to  you  compared  with  such  service  to  me.  Free  this 
wretched  tongue  from  its  stammer,  and  thought  and  zeal  will 
not  stammer  whenever  you  say,  'Keep  your  promise.'  I  am 
so  glad  your  little  girl  is  still  with  you." 

Waife  looked  surprised,  "Is  still  with  me! — why  not?" 

The  scholar  bit  his  tongue.  That  was  not  the  moment 
to  confess;  it  might  destroy  all  Waife's  confidence  in  him. 
He  would  do  so  later.  "When  shall  I  begin  my  lesson? " 

"Now,  if  you  like.     But  have  you  a  book  in  your  pocket?  " 

"I  always  have." 

"Not  Greek,  I  hope,  sir?" 

"No,  a  volume  of  Barrow's  Sermons.  Lord  Chatham  rec- 
ommended those  sermons  to  his  great  son  as  a  study  for 
eloquence." 

"Good!  Will  you  lend  me  the  volume,  sir?  and  now  for 
it.  Listen  to  me;  one  sentence  at  a  time;  draw  your  breath 
when  I  do." 

The  three  magpies  pricked  up  their  ears  again,  and,  as 
they  listened,  marvelled  much. 


872  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER   III. 

COULD  we  know  by  what  strange  circumstances  a  man's  genins  became  pre- 
pared for  practical  success,  we  should  discover  that  the  most  serviceable 
items  in  his  education  were  never  entered  in  the  bills  which  his  father 
paid  for  it. 

AT  the  end  of  the  very  first  lesson  George  Morley  saw  that 
all  the  elocution  masters  to  whose  skill  he  had  been  consigned 
were  blunderers  in  comparison  with  the  basketmaker. 

Waife  did  not  puzzle  him  with  scientific  theories.  All  that 
the  great  comedian  required  of  him  was  to  observe  and  to 
imitate.  Observation,  imitation,  lo!  the  groundwork  of  all 
art !  the  primal  elements  of  all  genius !  Not  there,  indeed  to 
halt,  but  there  ever  to  commence.  What  remains  to  carry  on 
the  intellect  to  mastery?  Two  steps, — to  reflect,  to  repro- 
duce. Observation,  imitation,  reflection,  reproduction.  In 
these  stands  a  mind  complete  and  consummate,  fit  to  cope 
with  all  labour,  achieve  all  success. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  lesson  George  Morley  felt  that  his 
cure  was  possible.  Making  an  appointment  for  the  next  day 
at  the  same  place,  he  came  thither  stealthily  and  so  on  day 
by  day.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  felt  that  the  cure  was 
nearly  certain ;  at  the  end  of  a  month  the  cure  was  self-evi- 
dent. He  should  live  to  preach  the  Word.  True,  that  he 
practised  incessantly  in  private.  Not  a  moment  in  his  wak- 
ing hours  that  the  one  thought,  one  object,  was  absent  from 
his  mind!  True,  that  with  all  his  patience,  all  his  toil,  the 
obstacle  was  yet  serious,  might  never  be  entirely  overcome. 
Nervous  hurry,  rapidity  of  action,  vehemence  of  feeling, 
brought  back,  might  at  unguarded  moments  always  bring 
back,  the  gasping  breath,  the  emptied  lungs,  the  struggling 
utterance.  But  the  relapse,  rarer  and  rarer  now  with  each 
trial,  would  be  at  last  scarce  a  drawback.  "Nay,"  quoth 
Waife,  "instead  of  a  drawback,  become  but  an  orator,  and 
you  will  convert  a  defect  into  a  beauty." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  373 

Thus  justly  sanguine  of  the  accomplishment  of  his  life's 
chosen  object,  the  scholar's  gratitude  to  Waife  was  unspeak- 
able^ And  seeing  the  man  daily  at  last  in  his  own  cottage, 
—  Sophy's  health  restored'  to  her  cheeks,  smiles  to  her  lip, 
and  cheered  at  her  light  fancy-work  beside  her  grandsire's 
elbow-chair,  with  fairy  legends  instilling  perhaps  golden 
truths, — seeing  Waife  thus,  the  scholar  mingled  with  grati- 
tude a  strange  tenderness  of  respect.  He  knew  nought  of  the 
vagrant's  past,  his  reason  might  admit  that  in  a  position  of 
life  so  at  variance  with  the  gifts  natural  and  acquired  of  the 
singular  basketmaker,  there  was  something  mysterious  and 
suspicious.  But  he  blushed  to  think  that  he  had  ever  as- 
cribed to  a  flawed  or  wandering  intellect  the  eccentricities  of 
glorious  Humour, —  abetted  an  attempt  to  separate  an  old  age 
so  innocent  and  genial  from  a  childhood  so  fostered  and  so 
fostering.  And  sure  I  am  that  if  the  whole  world  had  risen 
up  to  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the  one-eyed  cripple,  George 
Morley — the  well-born  gentleman,  the  refined  scholar,  the 
spotless  Churchman  —  would  have  given  him  his  arm  to  lean 
upon,  and  walked  by  his  side  unashamed. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

To  judge  human  character  rightly,  a  man  may  sometimes  have  very 
small  experience,  provided  he  has  a  very  large  heart. 

NUMA  POMPILIUS  did  not  more  conceal  from  notice  the 
lessons  he  received  from  Egeria  than  did  George  Morley 
those  which  he  received  from  the  basketmaker.  Natural, 
indeed,  must  be  his  wish  for  secrecy;  pretty  story  it  would 
be  for  Humberston,  its  future  rector  learning  how  to  preach 
a  sermon  from  an  old  basketmaker!  But  he  had  a  nobler 
and  more  imperious  motive  for  discretion:  his  honour  was 
engaged  to  it.  Waife  exacted  a  promise  that  he  would  re- 


374  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

gard  the  intercourse  between  them  as  strictly  private  and 
confidential. 

"It  is  for  my  sake  I  ask  this,"  said  Waife,  frankly, 
"  though  I  might  say  it  was  for  yours ; "  the  Oxonian  prom- 
ised, and  was  bound.  Fortunately  Lady  Montfort  quitted 
the  great  house  the  very  day  after  George  had  first  encoun- 
tered the  basketmaker,  and  writing  word  that  she  should  not 
return  to  it  for  some  weeks,  George  was  at  liberty  to  avail 
himself  of  her  lord's  general  invitation  to  make  use  of  Mont- 
fort  Court  as  his  lodgings  when  in  the  neighbourhood ;  which 
the  proprieties  of  the  world  would  not  have  allowed  him  to 
do  while  Lady  Montfort  was  there  without  either  host  or  fe- 
male guests.  Accordingly,  he  took  up  his  abode  in  a  corner  of 
the  vast  palace,  and  was  easily  enabled,  when  he  pleased,  to 
traverse  unobserved  the  solitudes  of  the  park,  gain  the  water- 
side, or  stroll  thence  through  the  thick  copse  leading  to 
Waife's  cottage,  which  bordered  the  park  pales,  solitary,  se- 
questered, beyond  sight  of  the  neighbouring  village.  The 
great  house  all  to  himself,  George  was  brought  in  contact 
with  no  one  to  whom,  in  unguarded  moments,  he  could  even 
have  let  out  a  hint  of  his  new  acquaintance,  except  the  clergy- 
man of  the  parish,  a  worthy  man,  who  lived  in  strict  retire- 
ment upon  a  scanty  stipend.  For  the  Marquess  was  the  lay 
impropriator ;  the  living  was  therefore  but  a  very  poor  vicar- 
age, below  the  acceptance  of  a  Vipont  or  a  Vipont's  tutor, — 
sure  to  go  to  a  worthy  man  forced  to  live  in  strict  retirement. 
George  saw  too  little  of  this  clergyman,  either  to  let  out  se- 
crets or  pick  up  information.  From  him,  however,  George 
did  incidentally  learn  that  Waife  had  some  months  previ- 
ously visited  the  village,  and  proposed  to  the  bailiff  to  take 
the  cottage  and  osier  land,  which  he  now  rented ;  that  he  rep- 
resented himself  as  having  known  an  old  basketmaker  who 
had  dwelt  there  many  years  ago,  and  as  having  learned  the 
basket  craft  of  that  long  deceased  operative.  As  he  offered 
a  higher  rent  than  the  bailiff  could  elsewhere  obtain,  and  as 
the  bailiff  was  desirous  to  get  credit  with  Mr.  Carr  Vipont 
for  improving  the  property,  by  reviving  thereon  an  art  which 
had  fallen  into  desuetude,  the  bargain  was  struck,  provided 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  375 

the  candidate,  being  a  stranger  to  the  place,  could  furnish 
the  bailiff  with  any  satisfactory  reference.  Waife  had  gone 
away,  saying  he  should  shortly  return  with  the  requisite  tes- 
timonial. In  fact,  poor  man,  as  we  know,  he  was  then  count- 
ing on  a  good  word  from  Mr.  Hartopp.  He  had  not,  however, 
returned  for  some  months.  The  cottage,  having  been  mean- 
while wanted  for  the  temporary  occupation  of  an  under-game- 
keeper,  while  his  own  was  under  repair,  fortunately  remained 
unlet.  Waife,  on  returning,  accompanied  by  his  little  girl, 
had  referred  the  bailiff  to  a  respectable  house-agent  and  col- 
lector of  street  rents  in  Bloomsbury,  who  wrote  word  that  a 
lady,  then  abroad,  had  authorized  him,  as  the  agent  employed 
in  the  management  of  a  house  property  from  which  much  of 
her  income  was  derived,  not  only  to  state  that  Waife  was  a 
very  intelligent  man,  likely  to  do  well  whatever  he  under- 
took, but  also  to  guarantee,  if  required,  the  punctual  payment 
of  the  rent  for  any  holding  of  which  he  became  the  occupier. 
On  this  the  agreement  was  concluded,  the  basketmaker  in- 
stalled. In  the  immediate  neighbourhood  there  was  no  cus- 
tom for  basket-work,  but  Waife's  performances  were  so  neat, 
and  some  so  elegant  and  fanciful,  that  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
contracting  with  a  large  tradesman  (not  at  Humberston,  but 
a  more  distant  and  yet  more  thriving  town  about  twenty 
miles  off)  for  as  much  of  such  work  as  he  could  supply. 
Each  week  the  carrier  took  his  goods  and  brought  back  the 
payments;  the  profits  amply  sufficed  for  Waife's  and  Sophy's 
daily  bread,  with  even  more  than  the  surplus  set  aside  for  the 
rent.  For  the  rest,  the  basketmaker's  cottage  being  at  the 
farthest  outskirts  of  the  straggling  village  inhabited  by  a 
labouring  peasantry,  his  way  of  life  was  not  much  known  nor 
much  inquired  into.  He  seemed  a  harmless,  hard-working 
man;  never  seen  at  the  beerhouse;  always  seen  with  his 
neatly-dressed  little  grandchild  in  his  quiet  corner  at  church 
on  Sundays ;  a  civil,  well-behaved  man  too,  who  touched  his 
hat  to  the  bailiff  and  took  it  off  to  the  vicar. 

An  idea  prevailed  that  the  basketmaker  had  spent  much  of 
his  life  in  foreign  countries,  favoured  partly  by  a  sobriety  of 
habits  which  is  not  altogether  national,  partly  by  something 


376  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

in  his  appearance,  which,  without  being  above  his  lowly  call- 
ing, did  not  seem  quite  in  keeping  with  it, — outlandish  in 
short, — but  principally  by  the  fact  that  he  had  received  since 
his  arrival  two  letters  with  a  foreign  postmark.  The  idea  be- 
friended the  old  man, —  allowing  it  to  be  inferred  that  he  had 
probably  outlived  the  friends  he  had  formerly  left  behind  him 
in  England,  and,  on  his  return,  been  sufficiently  fatigued  with 
his  rambles  to  drop  contented  in  any  corner  of  his  native  soil 
wherein  he  could  find  a  quiet  home,  and  earn  by  light  toil  a 
decent  livelihood. 

George,  though  naturally  curious  to  know  what  had  been 
the  result  of  his  communication  to  Mrs.  Crane, —  whether  it 
had  led  to  Waife's  discovery  or  caused  him  annoyance, —  had 
hitherto,  however,  shrunk  from  touching  upon  a  topic  which 
subjected  himself  to  an  awkward  confession  of  officious  inter- 
meddling, and  to  which  any  indirect  allusion  might  appear 
an  indelicate  attempt  to  pry  into  painful  family  affairs.  But 
one  day  he  received  a  letter  from  his  father  which  disturbed 
him  greatly,  and  induced  him  to  break  ground  and  speak  to 
his  preceptor  frankly.  In  this  letter,  the  elder  Mr.  Morley 
mentioned  incidentally,  amongst  other  scraps  of  local  news, 
that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Hartopp,  who  was  rather  out  of  sorts, 
his  good  heart  not  having  recovered  the  shock  of  having  been 
abominably  "  taken  in  "  by  an  impostor  for  whom  he  had  con- 
ceived a  great  fancy,  and  to  whose  discovery  George  himself 
had  providentially  led  (the  father  referred  here  to  what 
George  had  told  him  of  his  first  meeting  with  Waife,  and  his 
visit  to  Mrs.  Crane);  the  impostor,  it  seemed,  from  what 
Mr.  Hartopp  let  fall,  not  being  a  little  queer  in  the  head,  as 
George  had  been  led  to  surmise,  but  a  very  bad  character. 
"In  fact,"  added  the  elder  Morley,  "a  character  so  bad  that 
Mr.  Hartopp  was  too  glad  to  give  up  to  her  lawful  protectors 
the  child,  whom  the  man  appears  to  have  abducted;  and  I 
suspect,  from  what  Hartopp  said,  though  he  does  not  like  to 
own  that  he  was  taken  in  to  so  gross  a  degree,  that  he  had 
been  actually  introducing  to  his  fellow-townsfolk  and  con- 
ferring familiarly  with  a  regular  jail-bird, —  perhaps  a  bur- 
glar. How  lucky  for  that  poor,  soft-headed,  excellent  Jos 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  377 

Hartopp,  whom  it  is  positively  as  inhuman  to  take  in  as  it 
would  be  to  defraud  a  born  natural,  that  the  lady  you  saw 
arrived  in  time  to  expose  the  snares  laid  for  his  benevolent 
credulity.  But  for  that,  Jos  might  have  taken  the  fellow 
into  his  own  house  (just  like  him !),  and  been  robbed  by  this 
time,  perhaps  murdered, —  Heaven  knows!  " 

Incredulous  and  indignant,  and  longing  to  be  empowered  to 
vindicate  his  friend's  fair  name,  George  seized  his  hat,  and 
strode  quick  along  the  path  towards  the  basketmaker's  cot- 
tage. As  he  gained  the  water-side,  he  perceived  Waife  him- 
self, seated  on  a  mossy  bank,  under  a  gnarled  fantastic  thorn- 
tree,  watching  a  deer  as  it  came  to  drink,  and  whistling  a  soft 
mellow  tune, — the  tune  of  an  old  English  border-song.  The 
deer  lifted  his  antlers  from  the  water,  and  turned  his  large 
bright  eyes  towards  the  opposite  bank,  whence  the  note  came, 
listening  and  wistful.  As  George's  step  crushed  the  wild 
thyme,  which  the  thorn-tree  shadowed,  "  Hush !  "  said  Waife, 
"  and  mark  how  the  rudest  musical  sound  can  affect  the  brute 
creation."  He  resumed  the  whistle, —  a  clearer,  louder,  wilder 
tune, — that  of  a  lively  hunting-song.  The  deer  turned 
quickly  round, —  uneasy,  restless,  tossed  its  antlers,  and 
bounded  through  the  fern.  Waife  again  changed  the  key  of 
his  primitive  music, — a  melancholy  belling  note,  like  the 
belling  itself  of  a  melancholy  hart,  but  more  modulated  into 
sweetness.  The  deer  arrested  its  flight,  and,  lured  by  the 
mimic  sound,  returned  towards  the  water-side,  slowly  and 
statelily. 

"I  don't  think  the  story  of  Orpheus  charming  the  brutes 
was  a  fable;  do  you,  sir?"  said  Waife.  "The  rabbits  about 
here  know  me  already;  and,  if  I  had  but  a  fiddle,  I  would 
undertake  to  make  friends  with  that  reserved  and  unsocial 
water-rat,  on  whom  Sir  Isaac  in  vain  endeavours  at  present 
to  force  his  acquaintance.  Man  commits  a  great  mistake  in 
not  cultivating  more  intimate  and  amicable  relations  with 
the  other  branches  of  earth's  great  family.  Few  of  them  not 
more  amusing  than  we  are ;  naturally,  for  they  have  not  our 
cares.  And  such  variety  of  character  too,  where  you  would 
least  expect  itl" 


878  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

GEORGE  MORLEY.  —  "  Very  true.  Cowper  noticed  marked 
differences  of  character  in  his  favourite  hares." 

WAIFE. — "Hares!  I  am  sure  that  there  are  not  two 
house-flies  on  a  window-pane,  two  minnows  in  that  water, 
that  would  not  present  to  us  interesting  points  of  contrast  as 
to  temper  and  disposition.  If  house-flies  and  minnows  could 
but  coin  money,  or  set  up  a  manufacture, — contrive  some- 
thing, in  short,  to  buy  or  sell  attractive  to  Anglo-Saxon  en- 
terprise and  intelligence, —  of  course  we  should  soon  have 
diplomatic  relations  with  them ;  and  our  despatches  and  news- 
papers would  instruct  us  to  a  T  in  the  characters  and  propen- 
sities of  their  leading  personages.  But,  where  man  has  no 
pecuniary  nor  ambitious  interests  at  stake  in  his  commerce 
with  any  class  of  his  fellow-creatures,  his  information  about 
them  is  extremely  confused  and  superficial.  The  best  natu- 
ralists are  mere  generalizers,  and  think  they  have  done  a  vast 
deal  when  they  classify  a  species.  What  should  we  know 
about  mankind  if  we  had  only  a  naturalist's  definition  of 
man?  We  only  know  mankind  by  knocking  classification  on 
the  head,  and  studying  each  man  as  a  class  in  himself.  Com- 
pare Buffon  and  Shakspeare!  Alas,  sir!  can  we  never  have 
a  Shakspeare  for  house-flies  and  minnows?" 

GEORGE  MORLEY.  — "  With  all  respect  for  minnows  and 
house-flies,  if  we  found  another  Shakspeare,  he  might  be 
better  employed,  like  his  predecessor,  in  selecting  individu- 
alities from  the  classifications  of  man." 

WAIFE.  —  "  Being  yourself  a  man,  you  think  so :  a  house- 
fly might  be  of  a  different  opinion.  But  permit  me,  at  least, 
to  doubt  whether  such  an  investigator  would  be  better  em- 
ployed in  reference  to  his  own  happiness,  though  I  grant  that 
he  would  be  so  in  reference  to  your  intellectual  amusement 
and  social  interests.  Poor  Shakspeare!  How  much  he 
must  have  suffered ! " 

GEORGE  MORLEY.  — "  You  mean  that  he  must  have  been 
racked  by  the  passions  he  describes, — bruised  by  collision 
with  the  hearts  he  dissects.  That  is  not  necessary  to  genius. 
The  judge  on  his  bench,  summing  up  evidence  and  charging 
the  jury,  has  no  need  to  have  shared  the  temptations  or  been 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  379 

privy  to  the  acts  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.      Yet  how 
consummate  may  be  his  analysis!" 

"No,"  cried  Waife,  roughly.  "No.  Your  illustration  de- 
stroys your  argument.  The  judge  knows  nothing  of  the  pris- 
oner. There  are  the  circumstances;  there  is  the  law.  By 
these  he  generalizes,  by  these  he  judges, —  right  or  wrong. 
But  of  the  individual  at  the  bar,  of  the  world  —  the  tre- 
mendous world  —  within  that  individual  heart,  I  repeat,  he 
knows  nothing.  Did  he  know,  law  and  circumstances  might 
vanish,  human  justice  would  be  paralyzed.  Ho,  there !  place 
that  swart-visaged,  ill-looking  foreigner  in  the  dock,  and  let 
counsel  open  the  case ;  hear  the  witnesses  depose !  Oh,  horri- 
ble wretch!  a  murderer!  unmanly  murderer! — a  defenceless 
woman  smothered  by  caitiff  hands!  Hang  him  up!  hang 
him  up!  'Softly,'  whispers  the  POET,  and  lifts  the  veil  from 
the  assassin's  heart.  'Lo!  it  is  Othello  the  Moor!'  What 
jury  now  dare  find  that  criminal  guilty?  what  judge  now  put 
on  the  black  cap?  who  now  says,  'Hang  him  up!  hang  him 
up'?" 

With  such  lifelike  force  did  the  Comedian  vent  this  pas- 
sionate outburst  that  he  thrilled  his  listener  with  an  awe  akin 
to  that  which  the  convicted  Moor  gathers  round  himself  at 
the  close  of  the  sublime  drama.  Even  Sir  Isaac  was  startled ; 
and  leaving  his  hopeless  pursuit  of  the  water-rat,  uttered  a 
low  bark,  came  to  his  master,  and  looked  into  his  face  with 
solemn  curiosity. 

WAIFE  (relapsing  into  colloquial  accents). — "Why  do  we 
sympathize  with  those  above  us  more  than  with  those  below? 
why  with  the  sorrows  of  a  king  rather  than  those  of  a  beggar? 
why  does  Sir  Isaac  sympathize  with  me  more  than  (let  that 
water-rat  vex  him  ever  so  much)  I  can  possibly  sympathize 
with  him?  Whatever  be  the  cause,  see  at  least,  Mr.  Morley, 
one  reason  why  a  poor  creature  like  myself  finds  it  better  em- 
ployment to  cultivate  the  intimacy  of  brutes  than  to  prosecute 
the  study  of  men.  Among  men,  all  are  too  high  to  sympa- 
thize with  me ;  but  I  have  known  two  friends  who  never  in- 
jured nor  betrayed.  Sir  Isaac  is  one ;  Wamba  was  another. 
Wamba,  sir,  the  native  of  a  remote  district  of  the  globe  (two 


880  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

friends  civilized  Europe  is  not  large  enough  to  afford  any  one 
man),  Wamba,  sir,  was  less  gifted  by  nature,  less  refined  by 
education,  than  Sir  Isaac ;  but  he  was  a  safe  and  trustworthy 
companion:  Wamba,  sir,  was  —  an  opossum." 

GEORGE  MORLEY.  —  "  Alas,  my  dear  Mr.  Waife,  I  fear  that 
men  must  have  behaved  very  ill  to  you." 

WAIFE. — "I  have  no  right  to  complain.  I  have  behaved 
very  ill  to  myself.  When  a  man  is  his  own  enemy,  he  is 
very  unreasonable  if  he  expect  other  men  to  be  his  bene- 
factors." 

GEORGE  MORLEY  (with  emotion). — "Listen,  I  have  a  con- 
fession to  make  to  you.  I  fear  I  have  done  you  an  injury, 
where,  officiously,  I  meant  to  do  a  kindness."  The  scholar 
hurried  on  to  narrate  the  particulars  of  his  visit  to  Mrs. 
Crane.  On  concluding  the  recital,  he  added,  "  When  again  I 
met  you  here,  and  learned  that  your  Sophy  was  with  you,  1 
felt  inexpressibly  relieved.  It  was  clear  then,  I  thought, 
that  your  grandchild  had  been  left  to  your  care  unmolested, 
either  that  you  had  proved  not  to  be  the  person  of  whom  the 
parties  were  in  search,  or  family  affairs  had  been  so  explained 
and  reconciled  that  my  interference  had  occasioned  you  no 
harm.  But  to-day  I  have  a  letter  from  my  father  which  dis- 
quiets me  much.  It  seems  that  the  persons  in  question  did 
visit  Gatesboro',  and  have  maligned  you  to  Mr.  Hartopp. 
Understand  me,  I  ask  for  no  confidence  which  you  may  be 
unwilling  to  give;  but  if  you  will  arm  me  with  the  power  to 
vindicate  your  character  from  aspersions  which  I  need  not 
your  assurance  to  hold  unjust  and  false,  I  will  not  rest  till 
that  task  be  triumphantly  accomplished." 

WAIFE  (in  a  tone  calm  but  dejected).  —  "I  thank  you  with 
all  my  heart.  But  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  I  am  glad 
that  the  subject  did  not  start  up  between  us  until  such  little 
service  as  I  could  render  you,  Mr.  Morley,  was  pretty  well 
over.  It  would  have  been  a  pity  if  you  had  been  compelled  to 
drop  all  communication  with  a  man  of  attainted  character, 
before  you  had  learned  how  to  manage  the  powers  that  will 
enable  you  hereafter  to  exhort  sinners  worse  than  I  have 
been.  Hush,  sir!  you  feel  that,  at  least  now,  I  am  an  in- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  381 

offensive  old  man,  labouring  for  a  humble  livelihood.  You 
will  not  repeat  here  what  you  may  have  heard,  or  yet  hear, 
to  the  discredit  of  my  former  life.  You  will  not  send  me  and 
my  grandchild  forth  from  our  obscure  refuge  to  confront  a 
world  with  which  we  have  no  strength  to  cope.  And,  believ- 
ing this,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  say,  Fare-you-well,  sir." 

"I  should  deserve  to  lose  spe  —  spe  —  speech  altogether," 
cried  the  Oxonian,  gasping  and  stammering  fearfully  as  he 
caught  Waife  firmly  by  the  arm,  "if  I  suffered  —  suff  —  suff 

—  suff  — " 

"  One,  two !  take  time,  sir ! "  said  the  Comedian,  softly. 
And  with  a  sweet  patience  he  reseated  himself  on  the  bank. 

The  Oxonian  threw  himself  at  length  by  the  outcast's  side; 
and,  with  the  noble  tenderness  of  a  nature  as  chivalrously 
Christian  as  Heaven  ever  gave  to  priest,  he  rested  his  folded 
hands  upon  Waife's  shoulder,  and  looking  him  full  and  close 
in  the  face,  said  thus,  slowly,  deliberately,  not  a  stammer, — 

"  You  do  not  guess  what  you  have  done  for  me ;  you  have 
secured  to  me  a  home  and  a  career ;  the  wife  of  whom  I  must 
otherwise  have  despaired;  the  Divine  Vocation  on  which  all 
my  earthly  hopes  were  set,  and  which  I  was  on  the  eve  of  re- 
nouncing: do  not  think  these  are  obligations  which  can  be 
lightly  shaken  off.  If  there  are  circumstances  which  forbid 
me  to  disabuse  others  of  impressions  which  wrong  you,  imag- 
ine not  that  their  false  notions  will  affect  my  own  gratitude, 

—  my  own  respect  for  you !  " 

"Nay,  sir!  they  ought;  they  must.  Perhaps  not  your  ex- 
aggerated gratitude  for  a  service  which  you  should  not,  how- 
ever, measure  by  its  effects  on  yourself,  but  by  the  slightness 
of  the  trouble  it  gave  to  me ;  not  perhaps  your  gratitude,  but 
your  respect,  yes." 

"I  tell  you  no!  Do  you  fancy  that  I  cannot  judge  of  a 
man's  nature  without  calling  on  him  to  trust  me  with  all  the 
secrets  —  all  the  errors,  if  you  will  —  of  his  past  life?  Will 
not  the  calling  to  which  I  may  now  hold  myself  destined  give 
me  power  and  commandment  to  absolve  all  those  who  truly 
repent  and  unfeignedly  believe?  Oh,  Mr.  Waife!  if  in  ear- 
lier days  you  have  sinned,  do  you  not  repent?  and  how  often, 

\ 


882  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

in  many  a  lovely  gentle  sentence  dropped  unawares  from  your 
lips,  have  I  had  cause  to  know  that  you  unfeignedly  believe! 
Were  I  now  clothed  with  sacred  authority,  could  I  not  absolve 
you  as  a  priest?  Think  you  that,  in  the  meanwhile,  I  dare 
judge  you  as  a  man?  I, —  Life's  new  recruit,  guarded  hith- 
erto from  temptation  by  careful  parents  and  favouring  for- 
tune,—  /presume  to  judge,  and  judge  harshly,  the  gray-haired 
veteran,  wearied  by  the  march,  wounded  in  the  battle !  " 

"You  are  a  noble-hearted  human  being,"  said  Waife,  greatly 
affected.  "And,  mark  my  words,  a  mantle  of  charity  so  large 
you  will  live  to  wear  as  a  robe  of  honour.  But  hear  me,  sir ! 
Mr.  Hartopp  also  is  a  man  infinitely  charitable,  benevolent, 
kindly,  and,  through  all  his  simplicity,  acutely  shrewd;  Mr. 
Hartopp,  on  hearing  what  was  said  against  me,  deemed  me 
unfit  to  retain  my  grandchild,  resigned  the  trust  I  had  con- 
fided to  him,  and  would  have  given  me  alms,  no  doubt,  had  I 
asked  them,  but  not  his  hand.  Take  your  hands,  sir,  from 
my  shoulder,  lest  the  touch  sully  you." 

George  did  take  his  hands  from  the  vagrant's  shoulder,  but 
it  was  to  grasp  the  hand  that  waived  them  off  and  struggled 
to  escape  the  pressure.  "You  are  innocent!  you  are  inno- 
cent !  forgive  me  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  repentance  as  if  you 
had  been  guilty.  I  feel  you  are  innocent, —  feel  it  by  my 
own  heart.  You  turn  away.  I  defy  you  to  say  that  you  are 
guilty  of  what  has  been  laid  to  your  charge,  of  what  has  dark- 
ened your  good  name,  of  what  Mr.  Hartopp  believed  to  your 
prejudice.  Look  me  in  the  face  and  say,  'I  am  not  innocent; 
I  have  not  been  belied.'" 

Waife  remained  voiceless,  motionless. 

The  young  man,  in  whose  nature  lay  yet  unproved  all  those 
grand  qualities  of  heart,  without  which  never  was  there  a 
grand  orator,  a  grand  preacher, —  qualities  which  grasp  the 
results  of  argument,  and  arrive  at  the  end  of  elaborate  reason- 
ing by  sudden  impulse, — here  released  Waife's  hand,  rose  to 
his  feet,  and,  facing  Waife,  as  the  old  man  sat  with  face 
averted,  eyes  downcast,  breast  heaving,  said  loftily, — 

"Forget  that  1  may  soon  be  the  Christian  minister  whose 
duty  bows  his  ear  to  the  lips  of  Shame  and  Guilt;  whose 


383 

hand,  when  it  points  to  Heaven,  no  mortal  touch  can  sully; 
whose  sublimest  post  is  by  the  sinner's  side.  Look  on  me 
but  as  man  and  gentleman.  See,  I  now  extend  this  hand  to 
you.  If,  as  man  and  gentleman,  you  have  done  that  which, 
could  all  hearts  be  read,  all  secrets  known,  human  judgment 
reversed  by  Divine  omniscience,  forbids  you  to  take  this 
hand, —  then  reject  it,  go  hence:  we  part!  But  if  no  such 
act  be  on  your  conscience,  however  you  submit  to  its  imputa- 
tion,—  THEN,  in  the  name  of  Truth,  as  man  and  gentleman  to 
man  and  gentleman,  I  command  you  to  take  this  right  hand, 
and,  in  the  name  of  that  Honour  which  bears  no  paltering,  I 
forbid  you  to  disobey." 

The  vagabond  rose,  like  the  Dead  at  the  spell  of  a  Magi- 
cian,—  took,  as  if  irresistibly,  the  hand  held  out  to  him. 
And  the  scholar,  overjoyed,  fell  on  his  breast,  embracing  him 
as  a  son. 

"You  know,"  said  George,  in  trembling  accents,  "that  the 
hand  you  have  taken  will  never  betray,  never  desert;  but  is 
it  —  is  it  really  powerless  to  raise  and  to  restore  you  to  your 
place?  " 

"Powerless  amongst  your  kind  for  that  indeed,"  answered 
Waife,  in  accents  still  more  tremulous.  "All  the  kings  of 
the  earth  are  not  strong  enough  to  raise  a  name  that  has  once 
been  trampled  into  the  mire.  Learn  that  it  is  not  only  im- 
possible for  me  to  clear  myself,  but  that  it  is  equally  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  confide  to  mortal  being  a  single  plea  in  defence 
if  I  am  innocent,  in  extenuation  if  I  am  guilty.  And  saying 
this,  and  entreating  you  to  hold  it  more  merciful  to  condemn 
than  to  question  me, —  for  question  is  torture, —  I  cannot  re- 
ject your  pity ;  but  it  would  be  mockery  to  offer  me  respect !  " 

"What!  not  respect  the  fortitude  which  calumny  cannot 
crush?  Would  that  fortitude  be  possible  if  you  were  not 
calm  in  the  knowledge  that  no  false  witnesses  can  mislead 
the  Eternal  Judge?  Respect  you!  yes, — because  I  have  seen 
you  happy  in  despite  of  men,  and  therefore  I  know  that  the 
cloud  around  you  is  not  the  frown  of  Heaven." 

"Oh,"  cried  Waife,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks, "and 
not  an  hour  ago  I  was  jesting  at  human  friendship,  venting 


384  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

graceless  spleen  on  my  fellow-men!  And  now  —  now  —  ah, 
sir!  Providence  is  so  kind  to  me!  And,"  said  he,  brushing 
away  his  tears,  as  the  old  arch  smile  began  to  play  round  the 
corner  of  his  mouth,  "  and  kind  to  me  in  the  very  quarter  in 
which  unkindness  had  so  sorely  smitten  me.  True,  you  di- 
rected towards  me  the  woman  who  took  from  me  my  grand- 
child, who  destroyed  me  in  the  esteem  of  good  Mr.  Hartopp. 
Well,  you  see,  I  have  my  sweet  Sophy  back  again ;  we  are  in 
the  home  of  all  others  I  most  longed  for;  and  that  woman, — 
yes,  I  can,  at  least,  thus  far,  confide  to  you  my  secrets,  so 
that  you  may  not  blame  yourself  for  sending  her  to  Gates- 
boro', —  that  very  woman  knows  of  my  shelter;  furnished  me 
with  the  very  reference  necessary  to  obtain  it;  has  freed  my 
grandchild  from  a  loathsome  bondage,  which  I  could  not  have 
legally  resisted;  and  should  new  persecutions  chase  us  will 
watch  and  warn  and  help  us.  And  if  you  ask  me  how  this 
change  in  her  was  effected;  how,  when  we  had  abandoned  all 
hope  of  green  fields,  and  deemed  that  only  in  the  crowd,  of  a 
city  we  could  escape  those  who  pursued  us  when  discovered 
there,  though  I  fancied  myself  an  adept  in  disguise,  and  the 
child  and  the  dog  were  never  seen  out  of  the  four  garret 
walls  in  which  I  hid  them, —  if  you  ask  me,  I  say,  to  explain 
how  that  very  woman  was  suddenly  converted  from  a  remorse- 
less foe  into  a  saving  guardian,  I  can  only  answer  'By  no  wit, 
no  device,  no  persuasive  art  of  mine.  Providence  softened 
her  heart,  and  made  it  kind,  just  at  a  moment  when  no  other 
agency  on  earth  could  have  rescued  us  from  —  from  — ' " 

"  Say  no  more :  I  guess !  the  paper  this  woman  showed  me 
was  a  legal  form  authorizing  your  poor  little  Sophy  to  be 
given  up  to  the  care  of  a  father.  I  guess !  of  that  father  you 
would  not  speak  ill  to  me;  yet  from  that  father  you  would 
save  your  grandchild.  Say  no  more.  And  yon  quiet  home, 
your  humble  employment,  really  content  you?  " 

"Oh,  if  such  a  life  can  but  last!  Sophy  is  so  well,  so 
cheerful,  so  happy.  Did  not  you  hear  her  singing  the  other 
day?  She  never  used  to  sing!  But  we  had  not  been  here  a 
week  when  song  broke  out  from  her,  untaught,  as  from  a 
bird.  But  if  any  ill  report  of  me  travel  hither  from  Gates- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  385 

boro'  or  elsewhere,  we  should  be  sent  away,  and  the  bird 
would  be  mute  in  my  thorn-tree:  Sophy  would  sing  no  more." 

"Do  not  fear  that  slander  shall  drive  you  hence.  Lady 
Montfort,  you  know,  is  my  cousin,  but  you  know  not  —  few 
do  —  how  thoroughly  generous  and  gentle-hearted  she  is.  I 
will  speak  of  you  to  her, — oh!  do  not  look  alarmed.  She 
will  take  my  word  when  I  tell  her,  'That  is  a  good  man;'  and 
if  she  ask  more,  it  will  be  enough  to  say,  'Those  who  have 
known  better  days  are  loth  to  speak  to  strangers  of  the  past. ' " 

"I  thank  you  earnestly,  sincerely,"  said  Waife,  brightening 
up.  "  One  favour  more :  if  you  saw  in  the  formal  document 
shown  to  you,  or  retain  on  your  memory,  the  name  of  —  of 
the  person  authorized  to  claim  Sophy  as  his  child,  you  will 
not  mention  it  to  Lady  Montfort.  I  am  not  sure  if  ever  she 
heard  that  name,  but  she  may  have  done  so,  and  —  and  — " 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  muse ;  then  went  on,  not 
concluding  his  sentence.  "You  are  so  good  to  me,  Mr. 
Morley,  that  I  wish  to  confide  in  you  as  far  as  I  can.  Now, 
you  see,  I  am  already  an  old  man,  and  my  chief  object  is  to 
raise  up  a  friend  for  Sophy  when  I  am  gone, —  a  friend  in  her 
own  sex,  sir.  Oh,  you  cannot  guess  how  I  long,  how  I  yearn, 
to  view  that  child  under  the  holy  fostering  eyes  of  a  woman. 
Perhaps  if  Lady  Montfort  saw  my  pretty  Sophy  she  might 
take  a  fancy  to  her.  Oh,  if  she  did!  if  she  did!  And 
Sophy,"  added  Waife,  proudly,  "has  a  right  to  respect.  She 
is  not  like  me, —  any  hovel  is  good  enough  for  me;  but  for 
her !  Do  you  know  that  I  conceived  that  hope,  that  the  hope 
helped  to  lead  me  back  here  when,  months  ago,  I  was  at  Hum- 
berston,  intent  upon  rescuing  Sophy;  and  saw  —  though," 
observed  Waife,  with  a  sly  twitch  of  the  muscles  round  his 
mouth,  "I  had  no  right  at  that  precise  moment  to  be  seeing 
anything  —  Lady  Montfort's  humane  fear  for  a  blind  old  im- 
postor, who  was  trying  to  save  his  dog  —  a  black  dog,  sir, 
who  had  dyed  his  hair  —  from  her  carriage  wheels.  And  the 
hope  became  stronger  still,  when,  the  first  Sunday  I  attended 
yon  village  church,  I  again  saw  that  fair  —  wondrously  fair  — 
face  at  the  far  end, —  fair  as  moonlight  and  as  melancholy. 
Strange  it  is,  sir,  that  I  —  naturally  a  boisterous,  mirthful 
VOL  i.  —  25 


386  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

man,  and  now  a  shy,  skulking  fugitive  —  feel  more  attracted, 
more  allured  towards  a  countenance,  in  proportion  as  I  read 
there  the  trace  of  sadness.  I  feel  less  abased  by  my  own 
nothingness,  more  emboldened  to  approach  and  say,  'Not  so 
far  apart  from  me:  thou  too  hast  suffered.'  Why  is  this?" 

GEORGE  MORLEY. — "'The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart  that 
there  is  no  God; '  but  the  fool  hath  not  said  in  his  heart  that 
there  is  no  sorrow, — pithy  and  most  profound  sentence;  inti- 
mating the  irrefragable  claim  that  binds  men  to  the  Father. 
And  when  the  chain  tightens,  the  children  are  closer  drawn 
together.  But  to  your  wish :  I  will  remember  it.  And  when 
my  cousin  returns,  she  shall  see  your  Sophy." 


CHAPTER  V. 

MR.  WAIFE,  being  by  nature  unlucky,  considers  that,  in  proportion  as  fortune 
brings  him  good  luck,  nature  converts  it  into  bad.  He  suffers  Mr.  George 
Morley  to  go  away  in  his  debt,  and  Sophy  fears  that  he  will  be  dull  in 
consequence. 

GEORGE  MORLEY,  a  few  weeks  after  the  conversation  last 
recorded,  took  his  departure  from  Montfort  Court,  prepared, 
without  a  scruple,  to  present  himself  for  ordination  to  the 
friendly  bishop.  From  Waife  he  derived  more  than  the  cure 
of  a  disabling  infirmity;  he  received  those  hints  which,  to  a 
man  who  has  the  natural  temperament  of  an  orator,  so  rarely 
united  with  that  of  the  scholar,  expedite  the  mastery  of  the 
art  that  makes  the  fleeting  human  voice  an  abiding,  imperisha- 
ble power.  The  grateful  teacher  exhausted  all  his  lore  upon 
the  pupil  whose  genius  he  had  freed,  whose  heart  had  sub- 
dued himself.  Before  leaving,  George  was  much  perplexed 
how  to  offer  to  Waife  any  other  remuneration  than  that 
which,  in  Waife's  estimate,  had  already  overpaid  ail  the  ben- 
efits he  had  received;  namely,  unquestioning  friendship  and 
pledged  protection.  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  George 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  387 

thought  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  fortune  and  happiness  was 
entitled  to  something  beyond  that  moral  recompense.  But 
he  found,  at  the  first  delicate  hint,  that  Waife  would  not  hear 
of  money,  though  the  ex-Comedian  did  not  affect  any  very 
Quixotic  notion  on  that  practical  subject.  "  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  sir,  I  have  rather  a  superstition  against  having  more 
money  in  my  hands  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  It  has  al- 
ways brought  me  bad  luck.  And  what  is  very  hard,  —  the 
bad  luck  stays,  but  the  money  goes.  There  was  that  splendid 
sum  I  made  at  Gatesboro'.  You  should  have  seen  me  count- 
ing it  over.  I  could  not  have  had  a  prouder  or  more  swelling 
heart  if  I  had  been  that  great  man  Mr.  Elwes  the  miser. 
And  what  bad  luck  it  brought  me,  and  how  it  all  frittered 
itself  away !  Nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a  silk  ladder  and  an 
old  hurdy-gurdy,  and  I  sold  them  at  half  price.  Then  when 
I  had  the  accident,  which  cost  me  this  eye,  the  railway  peo- 
ple behaved  so  generously,  gave  me  £120, — think  of  that! 
And  before  three  days  the  money  was  all  gone ! " 

"How  was  that?"  said  George,  half -amused,  half -pained, 
—  "stolen  perhaps?" 

"Not  so,"  answered  Waife,  somewhat  gloomily,  "but  re- 
stored. A  poor  dear  old  man,  who  thought  very  ill  of  me, — 
and  I  don't  wonder  at  it, — was  reduced  from  great  wealth  to 
great  poverty.  While  I  was  laid  up,  my  landlady  read  a 
newspaper  to  me,  and  in  that  newspaper  was  an  account  of 
his  reverse  and  destitution.  But  I  was  accountable  to  him 
for  the  balance  of  an  old  debt,  and  that,  with  the  doctor's 
bills,  quite  covered  my  £120.  I  hope  he  does  not  think  quite 
so  ill  of  me  now.  But  the  money  brought  good  luck  to  him, 
rather  than  to  me.  Well,  sir,  if  you  were  now  to  give  me 
money,  I  should  be  on  the  look-out  for  some  mournful  calam- 
ity. Gold  is  not  natural  to  me.  Some  day,  however,  by  and 
by,  when  you  are  inducted  into  your  living,  and  have  become 
a  renowned  preacher,  and  have  plenty  to  spare,  with  an  idea 
that  you  will  feel  more  comfortable  in  your  mind  if  you  had 
done  something  royal  for  the  basketmaker,  I  will  ask  you  to 
help  me  to  make  up  a  sum,  which  I  am  trying  by  degrees  to 
save,  —  an  enormous  sum,  almost  as  much  as  I  paid  away 


t 
388  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

from  my  railway  compensation :  I  owe  it  to  the  lady  who  lent 
it  to  release  Sophy  from  an  engagement  which  I  —  certainly 
without  any  remorse  of  conscience  —  made  the  child  break." 

"Oh,  yes!  What  is  the  amount?  Let  me  at  least  repay 
that  debt." 

"Not  yet.  The  lady  can  wait;  and  she  would  be  pleased 
to  wait,  because  she  deserves  to  wait:  it  would  be  unkind  to 
her  to  pay  it  off  at  once.  But  in  the  meanwhile  if  you  could 
send  me  a  few  good  books  for  Sophy,  —  instructive,  yet  not 
very,  very  dry, —  and  a  French  dictionary,  I  can  teach  her 
French  when  the  winter  days  close  in.  You  see  I  am  not 
above  being  paid,  sir.  But,  Mr.  Morley,  there  is  a  great  fa- 
vour you  can  do  me." 

"What  is  it?    Speak." 

"  Cautiously  refrain  from  doing  me  a  great  disservice !  You 
are  going  back  to  your  friends  and  relations.  Never  speak 
of  me  to  them.  Never  describe  me  and  my  odd  ways.  Name 
not  the  lady,  nor  —  nor  —  nor  —  the  man  who  claimed  Sophy. 
Your  friends  might  not  hurt  me ;  others  might.  Talk  travels. 
The  hare  is  not  long  in  its  form  when  it  has  a  friend  in  a 
hound  that  gives  tongue.  Promise  what  I  ask.  Promise  it 
as  'man  and  gentleman."1 

"Certainly.  Yet  I  have  one  relation  to  whom  I  should 
like,  with  your  permission,  to  speak  of  you,  with  whom  I 
could  wish  you  acquainted.  He  is  so  thorough  a  man  of  the 
world,  that  he  might  suggest  some  method  to  clear  your  good 
name,  which  you  yourself  would  approve.  My  uncle,  Colonel 
Morley  —  " 

"On  no  account!"  cried  Waife,  almost  fiercely,  and  he 
evinced  so  much  anger  and  uneasiness  that  it  was  long  before 
George  could  pacify  him  by  the  most  earnest  assurances  that 
his  secret  should  be  inviolably  kept,  and  his  injunctions  faith- 
fully obeyed.  No  men  of  the  world  consulted  how  to  force 
him  back  to  the  world  of  men  that  he  fled  from !  No  colonels 
to  scan  him  with  martinet  eyes,  and  hint  how  to  pipeclay  a 
tarnish!  Waife's  apprehensions  gradually  allayed  and  his 
confidence  restored,  one  fine  morning  George  took  leave  of  his 
eccentric  benefactor. 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  389 

Waife  and  Sophy  stood  gazing  after  him  from  their  garden- 
gate,  the  cripple  leaning  lightly  on  the  child's  arm.  She 
looked  with  anxious  fondness  into  the  old  man's  thoughtful 
face,  and  clung  to  him  more  closely  as  she  looked. 

"Will  you  not  be  dull,  poor  Grandy?  will  you  not  miss 
him?" 

"  A  little  at  first, "  said  Waife,  rousing  himself.  "  Education 
is  a  great  thing.  An  educated  mind,  provided  that  it  does 
us  no  mischief, — which  is  not  always  the  case, — cannot  be 
withdrawn  from  our  existence  without  leaving  a  blank  be- 
hind. Sophy,  we  must  seriously  set  to  work  and  educate 
ourselves ! " 

"We  will,  Grandy  dear,"  said  Sophy,  with  decision;  and  a 
few  minutes  afterwards,  "  If  I  can  become  very,  very  clever, 
you  will  not  pine  so  much  after  that  gentleman, —  will  you, 
Grandy?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BEING  a  chapter  that  comes  to  an  untimely  end. 

WINTER  was  far  advanced  when  Montfort  Court  was  again 
brightened  by  the  presence  of  its  lady.  A  polite  letter  from 
Mr.  Carr  Vipont  had  reached  her  before  leaving  Windsor, 
suggesting  how  much  it  would  be  for  the  advantage  of  the 
Vipont  interest  if  she  would  consent  to  visit  for  a  month  or 
two  the  seat  in  Ireland,  which  had  been  too  long  neglected, 
and  at  which  my  lord  would  join  her  on  his  departure  from 
his  Highland  moors.  So  to  Ireland  went  Lady  Montfort. 
My  lord  did  not  join  her  there ;  but  Mr.  Carr  Vipont  deemed 
it  desirable  for  the  Vipont  interest  that  the  wedded  pair 
should  reunite  at  Montfort  Court,  where  all  the  Vipont  family 
were  invited  to  witness  their  felicity  or  mitigate  their  ennui. 

But  before  proceeding  another  stage  in  this  history,  it  be- 
comes a  just  tribute  of  respect  to  the  great  House  of  Vipont 


390  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

to  pause  and  place  its  past  records  and  present  grandeur  in 
fuller  display  before  the  reverential  reader.  The  House  of 
Vipont!  —  what  am  I  about?  The  House  of  Vipont  requires 
a  chapter  to  itself. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  VIPONT,  —  "  Majora  canamus." 

THE  House  of  Vipont!  Looking  back  through  ages,  it 
seems  as  if  the  House  of  Vipont  were  one  continuous  living 
idiosyncrasy,  having  in  its  progressive  development  a  con- 
nected unity  of  thought  and  action,  so  that  through  all  the 
changes  of  its  outward  form  it  had  been  moved  and  guided  by 
the  same  single  spirit, —  "Leroi  est  mort;  vlveleroi!"  —  A 
Vipont  dies;  live  the  Vipont!  Despite  its  high-sounding 
Norman  name,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  no  House  at  all  for 
some  generations  after  the  Conquest.  The  first  Vipont  who 
emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  time  was  a  rude  soldier  of 
Gascon  origin,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II., —  one  of  the  thou- 
sand fighting-men  who  sailed  from  Milford  Haven  with  the 
stout  Earl  of  Pembroke,  on  that  strange  expedition  which 
ended  in  the  conquest  of  Ireland.  This  gallant  man  obtained 
large  grants  of  land  in  that  fertile  island;  some  Mac  or  some 
0'  vanished,  and  the  House  of  Vipont  rose. 

During  the  reign  of  Richard  I.,  the  House  of  Vipont, 
though  recalled  to  England  (leaving  its  Irish  acquisitions  in 
charge  of  a  fierce  cadet,  who  served  as  middleman),  excused 
itself  from  the  Crusade,  and,  by  marriage  with  a  rich  gold- 
smith's daughter,  was  enabled  to  lend  moneys  to  those  who 
indulged  in  that  exciting  but  costly  pilgrimage.  In  the  reign 
of  John,  the  House  of  Vipont  foreclosed  its  mortgages  on 
lands  thus  pledged,  and  became  possessed  of  a  very  fair  prop- 
erty in  England,  as  well  as  its  fiefs  in  the  sister  isle. 

The  House  of  Vipont  took  no  part  in  the  troublesome  poli- 
tics of  that  day.  Discreetly  obscure,  it  attended  to  its  own 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  391 

fortunes,  and  felt  small  interest  in  Magna  Charta.  During 
the  reigns  of  the  Plantagenet  Edwards,  who  were  great  en- 
couragers  of  mercantile  adventure,  the  House  of  Vipont, 
shunning  Crecy,  Bannockburn,  and  such  profitless  brawls, 
intermarried  with  London  traders,  and  got  many  a  good  thing 
out  of  the  Genoese.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  the  House  of 
Vipont  reaped  the  benefit  of  its  past  forbearance  and  modesty. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  Viponts  appear  as  belted 
knights ;  they  have  armorial  bearings ;  they  are  Lancasterian 
to  the  backbone ;  they  are  exceedingly  indignant  against  her- 
etics ;  they  burn  the  Lollards ;  they  have  places  in  the  house- 
hold of  Queen  Joan,  who  was  called  a  witch, —  but  a  witch  is  a 
very  good  friend  when  she  wields  a  sceptre  instead  of  a  broom- 
stick. And  in  proof  of  its  growing  importance,  the  House 
of  Vipont  marries  a  daughter  of  the  then  mighty  House  of 
Darrell.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  V.,  during  the  invasion  of 
France,  the  House  of  Vipont  —  being  afraid  of  the  dysentery 
which  carried  off  more  brave  fellows  than  the  field  of  Agin- 
court  —  contrived  to  be  a  minor.  The  Wars  of  the  Roses 
puzzled  the  House  of  Vipont  sadly.  But  it  went  through 
that  perilous  ordeal  with  singular  tact  and  success.  The 
manner  in  which  it  changed  sides,  each  change  safe,  and  most 
changes  lucrative,  is  beyond  all  praise. 

On  the  whole,  it  preferred  the  Yorkists;  it  was  impossible 
to  be  actively  Lancasterian  with  Henry  VI.  of  Lancaster  al- 
ways in  prison.  And  thus,  at  the  death  of  Edward  IV.,  the 
House  of  Vipont  was  Baron  Vipont  of  Vipont,  with  twenty 
manors.  Richard  III.  counted  on  the  House  of  Vipont,  when 
he  left  London  to  meet  Richmond  at  Bosworth:  he  counted 
without  his  host.  The  House  of  Vipont  became  again  in- 
tensely Lancasterian,  and  was  amongst  the  first  to  crowd 
round  the  litter  in  which  Henry  VII.  entered  the  metropolis. 
In  that  reign  it  married  a  relation  of  Empson's,  did  the  great 
House  of  Vipont!  and  as  nobles  of  elder  date  had  become 
scarce  and  poor,  Henry  VII.  was  pleased  to  make  the  House 
of  Vipont  an  Earl, — the  Earl  of  Montfort.  In  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.,  instead  of  burning  Lollards,  the  House  of 
Vipont  was  all  for  the  Reformation:  it  obtained  the  lands 


392  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

of  two  priories  and  one  abbey.  Gorged  with  that  spoil,  the 
House  of  Vipont,  like  an  anaconda  in  the  process  of  diges- 
tion, slept  long.  But  no,  it  slept  not.  Though  it  kept  itself 
still  as  a  mouse  during  the  reign  of  Bloody  Queen  Mary  (only 
letting  it  be  known  at  Court  that  the  House  of  Vipont  had 
strong  papal  leanings) ;  though  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth 
and  James  it  made  no  noise,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  silently 
inflating  its  lungs  and  improving  its  constitution.  Slept, 
indeed!  it  was  wide  awake.  Then  it  was  that  it  began  sys- 
tematically its  grand  policy  of  alliances;  then  was  it  sedu- 
lously grafting  its  olive  branches  on  the  stems  of  those 
fruitful  New  Houses  that  had  sprung  up  with  the  Tudors; 
then,  alive  to  the  spirit  of  the  day,  provident  of  the  wants  of 
the  morrow,  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  it  wove 
the  interlacing  network  of  useful  cousinhood!  Then,  too,  it 
began  to  build  palaces,  to  enclose  parks ;  it  travelled,  too,  a 
little,  did  the  House  of  Vipont !  it  visited  Italy;  it  "conceived 
a  taste:  a  very  elegant  House  became  the  House  of  Vipont  1 
And  in  James's  reign,  for  the  first  time,  the  House  of  Vipont 
got  the  Garter.  The  Civil  Wars  broke  out:  England  was 
rent  asunder.  Peer  and  knight  took  part  with  one  side  or  the 
other.  The  House  of  Vipont  was  again  perplexed.  Certainly 
at  the  commencement  it  was  all  for  King  Charles.  But  when 
King  Charles  took  to  fighting,  the  House  of  Vipont  shook  its 
sagacious  head,  and  went  about,  like  Lord  Falkland,  sighing, 
"Peace,  peace!"  Finally,  it  remembered  its  neglected  es- 
tates in  Ireland:  its  duties  called  it  thither.  To  Ireland  it 
went,  discreetly  sad,  and,  marrying  a  kinswoman  of  Lord 
Fauconberg, — the  connection  least  exposed  to  Fortune's  ca- 
price of  all  the  alliances  formed  by  the  Lord  Protector's  fam- 
ily,—  it  was  safe  when  Cromwell  visited  Ireland;  and  no  less 
safe  when  Charles  II.  was  restored  to  England.  During  the 
reign  of  the  merry  monarch  the  House  of  Vipont  was  a  cour- 
tier, married  a  beauty,  got  the  Garter  again,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  became  the  fashion.  Fashion  began  to  be  a  power.  In 
the  reign  of  James  II.  the  House  of  Vipont  again  contrived 
to  be  a  minor,  who  came  of  age  just  in  time  to  take  the  oaths 
of  fealty  to  William  and  Mary.  In  case  of  accidents,  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  393 

House  of  Vipont  kept  on  friendly  terms  with  the  exiled 
Stuarts,  but  it  wrote  no  letters,  and  got  into  no  scrapes.  It 
was  not,  however,  till  the  Government,  under  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  established  the  constitutional  and  parliamentary 
system  which  characterizes  modern  freedom,  that  the  puis- 
sance accumulated  through  successive  centuries  by  the  House 
of  Vipont  became  pre-eminently  visible.  By  that  time  its 
lands  were  vast;  its  wealth  enormous;  its  parliamentary  in- 
fluence, as  "a  Great  House,"  was  a  part  of  the  British  Con- 
stitution. At  this  period,  the  House  of  Vipont  found  it 
convenient  to  rend  itself  into  two  grand  divisions, — the  peer's 
branch  and  the  commoner's.  The  House  of  Commons  had 
become  so  important  that  it  was  necessary  for  the  House  of 
Vipont  to  be  represented  there  by  a  great  commoner.  Thus 
arose  the  family  of  Carr  Vipont.  That  division,  owing  to  a 
marriage  settlement  favouring  a  younger  son  by  the  heiress  of 
the  Carrs,  carried  off  a  good  slice  from  the  estate  of  the  earl- 
dom :  uno  averso,  non  deficit  alter;  the  earldom  mourned,  but 
replaced  the  loss  by  two  wealthy  wedlocks  of  its  own;  and 
had  long  since  seen  cause  to  rejoice  that  its  power  in  the 
Upper  Chamber  was  strengthened  by  such  aid  in  the  Lower. 
For,  thanks  to  its  parliamentary  influence,  and  the  aid  of  the 
great  commoner,  in  the  reign  of  George  III.  the  House  of 
Vipont  became  a  Marquess.  From  that  time  to  the  present 
day,  the  House  of  Vipont  has  gone  on  prospering  and  pro- 
gressive. It  was  to  the  aristocracy  what  the  "Times"  news- 
paper is  to  the  press.  The  same  quick  sympathy  with  public 
feeling,  the  same  unity  of  tone  and  purpose,  the  same  adap- 
tability, and  something  of  the  same  lofty  tone  of  superiority 
to  the  petty  interests  of  party.  It  may  be  conceded  that  the 
House  of  Vipont  was  less  brilliant  than  the  "Times"  news- 
paper, but  eloquence  and  wit,  necessary  to  the  duration  of 
a  newspaper,  were  not  necessary  to  that  of  the  House  of 
Vipont.  Had  they  been  so,  it  would  have  had  them. 

The  head  of  the  House  of  Vipont  rarely  condescended  to 
take  office.  With  a  rent-roll  loosely  estimated  at  about 
£170,000  a  year,  it  is  beneath  a  man  to  take  from  the  public 
a  paltry  five  or  six  thousand  a  year,  and  undergo  all  the  un- 


394  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

dignified  abuse  of  popular  assemblies,  and  "a  ribald  press." 
But  it  was  a  matter  of  course  that  the  House  of  Vipont 
should  be  represented  in  any  Cabinet  that  a  constitutional 
monarch  could  be  advised  to  form.  Since  the  time  of  Wai- 
pole,  a  Vipont  was  always  in  the  service  of  his  country,  ex- 
cept in  those  rare  instances  when  the  country  was  infamously 
misgoverned.  The  cadets  of  the  House,  or  the  senior  mem- 
ber of  the  great  commoner's  branch  of  it,  sacrificed  their  ease 
to  fulfil  that  duty.  The  Montfort  marquesses  in  general  were 
contented  with  situations  of  honour  in  the  household,  as  of 
Lord  Steward,  Lord  Chamberlain,  or  Master  of  the  Horse, 
etc., —  not  onerous  dignities ;  and  even  these  they  only  deigned 
to  accept  on  those  special  occasions  when  danger  threatened 
the  star  of  Brunswick,  and  the  sense  of  its  exalted  station 
forbade  the  House  of  Vipont  to  leave  its  country  in  the  dark. 
Great  Houses  like  that  of  Vipont  assist  the  work  of  civili- 
zation by  the  law  of  their  existence.  They  are  sure  to  have  a 
spirited  and  wealthy  tenantry,  to  whom,  if  but  for  the  sake 
of  that  popular  character  which  doubles  political  influence, 
they  are  liberal  and  kindly  landlords.  Under  their  sway 
fens  and  sands  become  fertile;  agricultural  experiments  are 
tested  on  a  large  scale;  cattle  and  sheep  improve  in  breed; 
national  capital  augments,  and,  springing  beneath  the  plough- 
share, circulates  indirectly  to  speed  the  ship  and  animate  the 
loom.  Had  there  been  no  Woburn,  no  Holkham,  no  Mont- 
fort  Court,  England  would  be  the  poorer  by  many  a  million. 
Our  great  Houses  tend  also  to  the  refinement  of  national  taste ; 
they  have  their  show  places,  their  picture  galleries,  their 
beautiful  grounds.  The  humblest  drawing-rooms  owe  an  ele- 
gance or  comfort,  the  smallest  garden  a  flower  or  esculent,  to 
the  importations  which  luxury  borrowed  from  abroad,  or  the 
inventions  it  stimulated  at  home,  for  the  original  benefits  of 
great  Houses.  Having  a  fair  share  of  such  merits,  in  com- 
mon with  other  great  Houses,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  not 
without  good  qualities  peculiar  to  itself.  Precisely  because 
it  was  the  most  egotistical  of  Houses,  filled  with  the  sense  of 
its  own  identity,  and  guided  by  the  instincts  of  its  own  con- 
servation, it  was  a  very  civil,  good-natured  House, —  courte- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  395 

ous,  generous,  hospitable;  a  House  (I  mean  the  head  of  it, 
not  of  course  all  its  subordinate  members,  including  even  the 
august  Lady  Selina)  that  could  bow  graciously  and  shake 
hands  with  you.  Even  if  you  had  no  vote  yourself,  you 
might  have  a  cousin  who  had  a  vote.  And  once  admitted  into 
the  family,  the  House  adopted  you;  you  had  only  to  marry 
one  of  its  remotest  relations  and  the  House  sent  you  a  wed- 
ding present;  and  at  every  general  election,  invited  you  to 
rally  round  your  connection, —  the  Marquess.  Therefore,  next 
only  to  the  Established  Church,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  that 
British  institution  the  roots  of  which  were  the  most  widely 
spread. 

Now  the  Viponts  had  for  long  generations  been  an  ener- 
getic race.  Whatever  their  defects,  they  had  exhibited 
shrewdness  and  vigour.  The  late  Marquess  (grandfather  to 
the  present)  had  been  perhaps  the  ablest  (that  is,  done  most 
for  the  House  of  Vipont)  of  them  all.  Of  a  grandiose  and 
superb  mode  of  living ;  of  a  majestic  deportment ;  of  princely 
manners;  of  a  remarkable  talent  for  the  management  of  all 
business,  whether  private  or  public ;  a  perfect  enthusiast  for 
the  House  of  Vipont,  and  aided  by  a  marchioness  in  all  re- 
spects worthy  of  him, —  he  might  be  said  to  be  the  culminating 
flower  of  the  venerable  stem.  But  the  present  lord,  succeed- 
ing to  the  title  as  a  mere  child,  was  a  melancholy  contrast, 
not  only  to  his  grandsire,  but  to  the  general  character  of  his 
progenitors.  Before  his  time,  every  Head  of  the  House  had 
done  something  for  it ;  even  the  most  frivolous  had  contributed : 
one  had  collected  the  pictures,  another  the  statues,  a  third  the 
medals,  a  fourth  had  amassed  the  famous  Vipont  library; 
while  others  had  at  least  married  heiresses,  or  augmented, 
through  ducal  lines,  the  splendour  of  the  interminable  cousin- 
hood.  The  present  Marquess  was  literally  nil.  The  pith  of 
the  Viponts  was  not  in  him.  He  looked  well;  he  dressed 
well :  if  life  were  only  the  dumb  show  of  a  tableau,  he  would 
have  been  a  paragon  of  a  Marquess.  But  he  was  like  the 
watches  we  give  to  little  children,  with  a  pretty  gilt  dial- 
plate,  and  no  works  in  them.  He  was  thoroughly  inert; 
there  was  no  winding  him  up :  he  could  not  manage  his  prop- 


396  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

erty;  he  could  not  answer  his  letters, —  very  few  of  them 
could  he  even  read  through.  Politics  did  not  interest  him, 
nor  literature,  nor  field-sports.  He  shot,  it  is  true,  but 
mechanically;  wondering,  perhaps,  why  he  did  shoot.  He 
attended  races,  because  the  House  of  Vipont  kept  a  racing- 
stud.  He  bet  on  his  own  horses,  but  if  they  lost  showed  no 
vexation.  Admirers  (no  Marquess  of  Montfort  could  be 
wholly  without  them)  said,  "What  fine  temper!  what  good 
breeding ! "  it  was  nothing  but  constitutional  apathy.  No 
one  could  call  him  a  bad  man:  he  was  not  a  profligate,  an 
oppressor,  a  miser,  a  spendthrift;  he  would  not  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  be  a  bad  man  on  any  account.  Those  who  be- 
held his  character  at  a  distance  would  have  called  him  an  ex- 
emplary man.  The  more  conspicuous  duties  of  his  station  — 
subscriptions,  charities,  the  maintenance  of  grand  establish- 
ments, the  encouragement  of  the  fine  arts  —  were  virtues  ad- 
mirably performed  for  him  by  others.  But  the  phlegm  or 
nullity  of  his  being  was  not,  after  all,  so  complete  as  I  have 
made  it,  perhaps,  appear.  He  had  one  susceptibility  which  is 
more  common  with  women  than  with  men, — the  suscepti- 
bility to  pique.  His  amour  propre  was  unforgiving:  pique 
that,  and  he  could  do  a  rash  thing,  a  foolish  thing,  a  spiteful 
thing;  pique  that,  and,  prodigious!  the  watch  went!  He 
had  a  rooted  pique  against  his  marchioness.  Apparently  he 
had  conceived  this  pique  from  the  very  first.  He  showed  it 
passively  by  supreme  neglect;  he  showed  it  actively  by  re- 
moving her  from  all  the  spheres  of  power  which  naturally 
fall  to  the  wife  when  the  husband  shuns  the  details  of  busi- 
ness. Evidently  he  had  a  dread  lest  any  one  should  say, 
"Lady  Montfort  influences  my  lord."  Accordingly,  not  only 
the  management  of  his  estates  fell  to  Carr  Vipont,  but  even 
of  his  gardens,  his  household,  his  domestic  arrangements. 
It  was  Carr  Vipont  or  Lady  Selina  who  said  to  Lady  Montfort, 
"  Give  a  ball ; "  "  You  should  ask  so  and  so  to  dinner ; " 
"  Montfort  was  much  hurt  to  see  the  old  lawn  at  the  Twicken- 
ham villa  broken  up  by  those  new  bosquets.  True,  it  is  set- 
tled on  you  as  a  jointure-house,  but  for  that  very  reason 
Montfort  is  sensitive,"  etc.  In  fact,  they  were  virtually  as 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  397 

separated,  my  lord  and  my  lady,  as  if  legally  disunited,  and 
as  if  Carr  Vipont  and  Lady  Selina  were  trustees  or  interme- 
diaries in  any  polite  approach  to  each  other.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  where  Lady  Montfort's 
sphere  of  action  did  not  interfere  with  her  husband's  plans, 
habits,  likings,  dislikings,  jealous  apprehensions  that  she 
should  be  supposed  to  have  any  ascendency  over  what  exclu- 
sively belonged  to  himself  as  roi  faineant  of  the  Viponts,  she 
was  left  free  as  air.  No  attempt  at  masculine  control  or  con- 
jugal advice.  At  her  disposal  was  wealth  without  stint, 
every  luxury  the  soft  could  desire,  every  gewgaw  the  vain 
could  covet.  Had  her  pin-money,  which  in  itself  was  the 
revenue  of  an  ordinary  peeress,  failed  to  satisfy  her  wants ; 
had  she  grown  tired  of  wearing  the  family  diamonds,  and 
coveted  new  gems  from  Golconda, —  a  single  word  to  Carr 
Vipont  or  Lady  Selina  would  have  been  answered  by  a  carte 
blanche  on  the  Bank  of  England.  But  Lady  Montfort  had 
the  misfortune  not  to  be  extravagant  in  her  tastes.  Strange 
to  say,  in  the  world  Lord  Montfort's  marriage  was  called  a 
love-match;  he  had  married  a  portionless  girl,  daughter  to 
one  of  his  poorest  and  obscurest  cousins,  against  the  uniform 
policy  of  the  House  of  Vipont,  which  did  all  it  could  for 
poor  cousins  except  marrying  them  to  its  chief.  But  Lady 
Montfort's  conduct  in  these  trying  circumstances  was  admira- 
ble and  rare.  Few  affronts  can  humiliate  us  unless  we  resent 
them  —  and  in  vain.  Lady  Montfort  had  that  exquisite  dig- 
nity which  gives  to  submission  the  grace  of  cheerful  acqui- 
escence. That  in  the  gay  world  flatterers  should  gather 
round  a  young  wife  so  eminently  beautiful,  and  so  wholly 
left  by  her  husband  to  her  own  guidance,  was  inevitable. 
But  at  the  very  first  insinuated  compliment  or  pathetic  con- 
dolence, Lady  Montfort,  so  meek  in  her  household,  was 
haughty  enough  to  have  daunted  Lovelace.  She  was  thus 
very  early  felt  to  be  beyond  temptation,  and  the  boldest 
passed  on,  nor  presumed  to  tempt.  She  was  unpopular; 
called  "proud  and  freezing; "  she  did  not  extend  the  influence 
of  "The  House;"  she  did  not  confirm  its  fashion, —  fashion 
which  necessitates  social  ease,  and  which  no  rank,  no  wealth, 


398  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

no  virtue,  can  of  themselves  suffice  to  give.  And  this  failure 
on  her  part  was  a  great  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  House  of 
Vipont.  "She  does  absolutely  nothing  for  us,"  said  Lady 
Selina;  but  Lady  Selina  in  her  heart  was  well  pleased  that  to 
her  in  reality  thus  fell,  almost  without  a  rival,  the  female 
representation,  in  the  great  world,  of  the  Vipont  honours. 
Lady  Selina  was  fashion  itself. 

Lady  Montfort's  social  peculiarity  was  in  the  eagerness 
with  which  she  sought  the  society  of  persons  who  enjoyed  a 
reputation  for  superior  intellect,  whether  statesmen,  lawyers, 
authors,  philosophers,  artists.  Intellectual  intercourse  seemed 
as  if  it  was  her  native  atmosphere,  from  which  she  was  habit- 
ually banished,  to  which  she  returned  with  an  instinctive 
yearning  and  a  new  zest  of  life;  yet  was  she  called,  even 
here,  nor  seemingly  without  justice,  capricious  and  unsteady 
in  her  likings.  These  clever  personages,  after  a  little  while, 
all  seemed  to  disappoint  her  expectations  of  them;  she  sought 
the  acquaintance  of  each  with  cordial  earnestness ;  slid  from 
the  acquaintance  with  weary  languor, —  never,  after  all,  less 
alone  than  when  alone. 

And  so  wondrous  lovely !  Nothing  so  rare  as  beauty  of  the 
high  type :  genius  and  beauty,  indeed,  are  both  rare ;  genius, 
which  is  the  beauty  of  the  mind, — beauty,  which  is  the  gen- 
ius of  the  body.  But,  of  the  two,  beauty  is  the  rarer.  All 
of  us  can  count  on  our  fingers  some  forty  or  fifty  persons  of  un- 
doubted and  illustrious  genius,  including  those  famous  in  ac- 
tion, letters,  art.  But  can  any  of  us  remember  to  have  seen 
more  than  four  or  five  specimens  of  first-rate  ideal  beauty? 
Whosoever  had  seen  Lady  Montfort  would  have  ranked  her 
amongst  such  four  or  five  in  his  recollection.  There  was  in 
her  face  that  lustrous  dazzle  to  which  the  Latin  poet,  per- 
haps, refers  when  he  speaks  of  the  — 

"Nitor 

Splendentis  Pario  marmore  purios  .  .  . 
Et  voltus,  nimium  lubricus  adspici," 

and  which  an  English  poet,  with  the  less  sensuous  but  more 
spiritual  imagination  of  northern  genius,  has  described  in 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  399 

lines  that  an  English  reader  may  be  pleased  to  see  rescued 
from  oblivion,  — 

"  Her  face  was  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky, 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name."  1 

The  eyes  so  purely  bright,  the  exquisite  harmony  of  colouring 
between  the  dark  (not  too  dark)  hair  and  the  ivory  of  the 
skin;  such  sweet  radiance  in  the  lip  when  it  broke  into  a 
smile.  And  it  was  said  that  in  her  maiden  day,  before 
Caroline  Lyndsay  became  Marchioness  of  Montfort,  that 
smile  was  the  most  joyous  thing  imaginable.  Absurd  now; 
you  would  not  think  it,  but  that  stately  lady  had  been  a  wild, 
fanciful  girl,  with  the  merriest  laugh  and  the  quickest  tear, 
filling  the  air  round  her  with  April  sunshine.  Certainly,  no 
beings  ever  yet  lived  the  life  Nature  intended  them  to  live, 
nor  had  fair  play  for  heart  and  mind,  who  contrived,  by  hook 
or  by  crook,  to  marry  the  wrong  person ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  interior  of  the  great  house.  —  The  British  Constitution  at  home  in  a 
family  party. 

GREAT  was  the  family  gathering  that  Christmas-tide  at 
Montfort  Court.  Thither  flocked  the  cousins  of  the  House  in 
all  degrees  and  of  various  ranks.  From  dukes,  who  had  noth- 
ing left  to  wish  for  that  kings  and  cousinhoods  can  give,  to 
briefless  barristers  and  aspiring  cornets,  of  equally  good 
blood  with  the  dukes, —  the  superb  family  united  its  motley 
scions.  Such  reunions  were  frequent:  they  belonged  to  the 
hereditary  policy  of  the  House  of  Vipont.  On  this  occasion 
the  muster  of  the  clan  was  more  significant  than  usual;  there 
was  a  "CRISIS"  in  the  constitutional  history  of  the  British 

1  Suckling. 


400  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

empire.  A  new  Government  had  been  suddenly  formed 
within  the  last  six  weeks,  which  certainly  portended  some 
direful  blow  on  our  ancient  institutions}  for  the  House  of 
Vipont  had  not  been  consulted  in  its  arrangements,  and  was 
wholly  unrepresented  in  the  Ministry,  even  by  a  lordship  of 
the  Treasury.  Carr  Vipont  had  therefore  summoned  the  pa- 
triotic and  resentful  kindred. 

It  is  an  hour  or  so  after  the  conclusion  of  dinner.  The 
gentlemen  have  joined  the  ladies  in  the  state  suite,  a  suite 
which  the  last  Marquess  had  rearranged  and  redecorated  in  his 
old  age,  during  the  long  illness  that  finally  conducted  him  to 
his  ancestors.  During  his  earlier  years  that  princely  Mar- 
quess had  deserted  Montfort  Court  for  a  seat  nearer  to  London, 
and  therefore  much  more  easily  filled  with  that  brilliant  soci- 
ety of  which  he  had  been  long  the  ornament  and  centre, —  rail- 
ways not  then  existing  for  the  annihilation  of  time  and  space, 
and  a  journey  to  a  northern  county  four  days  with  post- 
horses  making  the  invitations  even  of  a  Marquess  of  Montfort 
unalluring  to  languid  beauties  and  gouty  ministers.  But 
nearing  the  end  of  his  worldly  career,  this  long  neglect  of  the 
dwelling  identified  with  his  hereditary  titles  smote  the  con- 
science of  the  illustrious  sinner.  And  other  occupations  be- 
ginning to  pall,  his  lordship,  accompanied  and  cheered  by  a 
chaplain,  who  had  a  fine  taste  in  the  decorative  arts,  came 
resolutely  to  Montfort  Court;  and  there,  surrounded  with 
architects  and  gilders  and  upholsterers,  redeemed  his  errors; 
and,  soothed  by  the  reflection  of  the  palace  provided  for  his 
successor,  added  to  his  vaults  —  a  coffin. 

The  suite  expands  before  the  eye.  You  are  in  the  grand 
drawing-room,  copied  from  that  of  Versailles.  That  is  the 
picture,  full  length,  of  the  late  Marquess  in  his  robes;  its 
pendant  is  the  late  Marchioness,  his  wife.  That  table  of 
malachite  is  a  present  from  the  Russian  Emperor  Alexander; 
that  vase  of  Sevres  which  rests  on  it  was  made  for  Marie 
Antoinette,  —  see  her  portrait  enamelled  in  its  centre. 
Through  the  open  door  at  the  far  end  your  eye  loses  itself  in 
a  vista  of  other  pompous  chambers,  —  the  music-room,  the 
statue  hall,  the  orangery;  other  rooms  there  are  appertaining 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  401 

to  the  suite,  a  ballroom  fit  for  Babylon,  a  library  that  might 
have  adorned  Alexandria, — but  they  are  not  lighted,  nor  re- 
quired, on  this  occasion;  it  is  strictly  a  family  party,  sixty 
guests  and  no  more. 

In  the  drawing-room  three  whist-tables  carry  off  the  more 
elderly  and  grave.  The  piano,  in  the  music-room,  attracts  a 
younger  group.  Lady  Selina  Vipont's  eldest  daughter, 
Honoria,  a  young  lady  not  yet  brought  out,  but  about  to  be 
brought  out  the  next  season,  is  threading  a  wonderfully  intri- 
cate German  piece, — 

"  Linked  sweetness,  long  drawn  out,"  — 

with  variations.  Her  science  is  consummate.  No  pains 
have  been  spared  on  her  education;  elaborately  accomplished, 
she  is  formed  to  be  the  sympathizing  spouse  of  a  wealthy 
statesman.  Lady  Montfort  is  seated  by  an  elderly  duchess, 
who  is  good-natured  and  a  great  talker;  near  her  are  seated 
two  middle-aged  gentlemen,  who  had  been  conversing  with 
her  till  the  duchess,  having  cut  in,  turned  dialogue  into 
monologue. 

The  elder  of  these  two  gentlemen  is  Mr.  Carr  Vipont,  bald, 
with  clipped  parliamentary  whiskers;  values  himself  on  a 
likeness  to  Canning,  but  with  a  portlier  presence;  looks  a 
large-acred  man.  Carr  Vipont  has  about  £40,000  a  year;  has 
often  refused  office  for  himself,  while  taking  care  that  other 
Viponts  should  have  it;  is  a  great  authority  in  committee 
business  and  the  rules  of  the  House  of  Commons ;  speaks  very 
seldom,  and  at  no  great  length,  never  arguing,  merely  stating 
his  opinion,  carries  great  weight  with  him,  and  as  he  votes 
vote  fifteen  other  members  of  the  House  of  Vipont,  besides 
admiring  satellites.  He  can  therefore  turn  divisions,  and 
has  decided  the  fate  of  cabinets.  A  pleasant  man,  a  little 
consequential,  but  the  reverse  of  haughty, — unctuously  over- 
bearing. The  other  gentleman,  to  whom  he  is  listening,  is 
our  old  acquaintance  Colonel  Alban  Vipont  Morley,  Darrell's 
friend,  George's  uncle, —  a  man  of  importance,  not  inferior, 
indeed,  to  that  of  his  kinsman  Can;  an  authority  in  club- 
rooms,  an  oracle  in  drawing-rooms,  a  first-rate  man  of  the 
beau  monde.  Alban  Morley,  a  younger  brother,  had  entered 

TOL    I.  — 26 


402  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  Guards  young;  retired  young  also  from  the  Guards  with 
the  rank  of  Colonel,  and  on  receipt  of  a  legacy  from  an  old 
aunt,  which,  with  the  interest  derived  from  the  sum  at  which 
he  sold  his  commission,  allowed  him  a  clear  income  of  £1,000 
a  year.  This  modest  income  sufficed  for  all  his  wants,  fine 
gentleman  though  he  was.  He  had  refused  to  go  into  Par- 
liament,—  refused  a  high  place  in  a  public  department.  Sin- 
gle himself,  he  showed  his  respect  for  wedlock  by  the  inter- 
est he  took  in  the  marriages  of  other  people;  just  as  Earl 
Warwick,  too  wise  to  set  up  for  a  king,  gratified  his  pas- 
sion for  royalty  by  becoming  the  king-maker.  The  Colonel 
was  exceedingly  accomplished,  a  very  fair  scholar,  knew  most 
modern  languages.  In  painting  an  amateur,  in  music  a  con- 
noisseur; witty  at  times,  and  with  wit  of  a  high  quality,  but 
thrifty  in  the  expenditure  of  it;  too  wise  to  be  known  as  a 
wit.  Manly  too,  a  daring  rider,  who  had  won  many  a  fox's 
brush;  a  famous  deer-stalker,  and  one  of  the  few  English 
gentlemen  who  still  keep  up  the  noble  art  of  fencing, — twice 
a  week  to  be  seen,  foil  in  hand,  against  all  comers  in  Angelo's 
rooms.  Thin,  well-shaped, — not  handsome,  my  dear  young 
lady,  far  from  it,  but  with  an  air  so  thoroughbred  that,  had 
you  seen  him  in  the  day  when  the  opera-house  had  a  crush- 
room  and  a  fops'  alley, — seen  him  in  either  of  those  resorts, 
surrounded  by  elaborate  dandies  and  showy  beauty-men, — 
dandies  and  beauty-men  would  have  seemed  to  you  second- 
rate  and  vulgar;  and  the  eye,  fascinated  by  that  quiet  form, 
—  plain  in  manner,  plain  in  dress,  plain  in  feature, — you 
would  have  said,  "  How  very  distinguished  it  is  to  be  so 
plain !  "  Knowing  the  great  world  from  the  core  to  the  cuti- 
cle, and  on  that  knowledge  basing  authority  and  position, 
Colonel  Morley  was  not  calculating,  not  cunning,  not  suspi- 
cious,—  his  sagacity  the  more  quick  because  its  movements 
were  straightforward;  intimate  with  the  greatest,  but  sought, 
not  seeking;  not  a  flatterer  nor  a  parasite,  but  when  his 
advice  was  asked  (even  if  advice  necessitated  reproof) 
giving  it  with  military  candour:  in  fine,  a  man  of  such 
social  reputation  as  rendered  him  an  ornament  and  prop  to 
the  House  of  Vipont;  and  with  unsuspected  depths  of  in- 


403 

telligence  and  feeling,  which  lay  in  the  lower  strata  of  his 
knowledge  of  this  world  to  witness  of  some  other  one,  and 
justified  Darrell  in  commending  a  boy  like  Lionel  Haughton 
to  the  Colonel's  friendly  care  and  admonitory  counsels.  The 
Colonel,  like  other  men,  had  his  weakness,  if  weakness  it 
can  be  called :  he  believed  that  the  House  of  Vipont  was  not 
merely  the  Corinthian  capital,  but  the  embattled  keep  —  not 
merely  the  dulce  decus,  but  the  presidium  columenque  rerum 
—  of  the  British  monarchy.  He  did  not  boast  of  his  connec- 
tion with  the  House ;  he  did  not  provoke  your  spleen  by  en- 
larging on  its  manifold  virtues;  he  would  often  have  his 
harmless  jest  against  its  members,  or  even  against  its  preten- 
sions :  but  such  seeming  evidences  of  forbearance  or  candour 
were  cunning  devices  to  mitigate  envy.  His  devotion  to  the 
House  was  not  obtrusive:  it  was  profound.  He  loved  the 
House  of  Vipont  for  the  sake  of  England :  he  loved  England 
for  the  sake  of  the  House  of  Vipont.  Had  it  been  possible, 
by  some  tremendous  reversal  of  the  ordinary  laws  of  nature, 
to  dissociate  the  cause  of  England  from  the  cause  of  the 
House  of  Vipont,  the  Colonel  would  have  said,  "  Save  at  least 
the  Ark  of  the  Constitution !  and  rally  round  the  old  House !  " 
The  Colonel  had  none  of  Guy  Darrell's  infirmity  of  family 
pride;  he  cared  not  a  rush  for  mere  pedigrees, — much  too  lib- 
eral and  enlightened  for  such  obsolete  prejudices.  No!  He 
knew  the  world  too  well  not  to  be  quite  aware  that  old  family 
and  long  pedigrees  are  of  no  use  to  a  man  if  he  has  not  some 
money  or  some  merit.  But  it  was  of  use  to  a  man  to  be  a 
cousin  of  the  House  of  Vipont,  though  without  any  money, 
without  any  merit  at  all.  It  was  of  use  to  be  part  and  parcel 
of  a  British  institution ;  it  was  of  use  to  have  a  legitimate  in- 
defeasible right  to  share  in  the  administration  and  patronage 
of  an  empire,  on  which  (to  use  a  novel  illustration)  "  the  sun 
never  sets."  You  might  want  nothing  for  yourself;  the  Col- 
onel and  the  Marquess  equally  wanted  nothing  for  themselves  : 
but  man  is  not  to  be  a  selfish  egotist!  Man  has  cousins:  his 
cousins  may  want  something.  Demosthenes  denounces,  in 
words  that  inflame  every  manly  breast,  the  ancient  Greek 
who  does1  not  love  his  POLIS  or  State,  even  though  he  take 


404  WHAT  WILL   HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

nothing  from  it  but  barren  honour,  and  contribute  towards  it 

—  a  great  many  disagreeable  taxes.     As  the  POLIS  to  the 
Greek,  was  the  House  of  Vipont  to  Alban  Vipont  Morley.     It 
was  the  most  beautiful,  touching  affection  imaginable !    When- 
ever the  House  was  in  difficulties,  whenever  it  was  threatened 
by  a  CRISIS,  the  Colonel  was  by  its  side,  sparing  no  pains, 
neglecting  no  means,  to  get  the  Ark  of  the  Constitution  back 
into  smooth  water.     That  duty  done,  he  retired  again  into 
private  life,    and  scorned  all  other  reward  than  the   still 
whisper  of  applauding  conscience. 

"Yes,"  said  Alban  Morley,  whose  voice,  though  low  and 
subdued  in  tone,  was  extremely  distinct,  with  a  perfect  enun- 
ciation. "  Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  my  nephew  has  taken  orders, 

—  his  defect  in  speech,  if  not  quite  removed,  has  ceased  to  be 
any  obstacle,  even  to  eloquence;  an  occasional  stammer  may 
be  effective, —  it  increases  interest,  and  when  the  right  word 
comes,  there  is  the  charm  of  surprise  in  it.     I  do  not  doubt 
that  George  will  be  a  very  distinguished  clergyman." 

MR.  CARR  VIPONT.  — "  We  want  one ;  the  House  wants  a 
very  distinguished  clergyman :  we  have  none  at  this  moment, 

—  not  a  bishop,  not  even  a  dean!  all  mere  parish  parsons,  and 
among  them  not  one  we  could  push.     Very  odd,  with  more 
than  forty  livings  too.     But  the  Viponts  seldom  take  to  the 
Church  kindly:  George  must  be  pushed.     The  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  more  we  want  a  bishop :  a  bishop  would  be  useful  in 
the  present  CRISIS."     (Looking  round  the  rooms  proudly,  and 
softening  his  voice),  "A  numerous  gathering,  Morley!     This 
demonstration  will  strike  terror  in  Downing  Street,  eh !     The 
old  House  stands  firm, —  never  was  a  family  so  united:  all 
here,  I  think, — that  is,  all  worth  naming, —  all,  except  Sir 
James,  whom  Montf ort  chooses  to  dislike,  and  George  —  and 
George  comes  to-morrow." 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  —  "  You  forget  the  most  eminent  of  all 
our  connections, — the  one  who  could  indeed  strike  terror  into 
Downing  Street,  were  his  voice  to  be  heard  again ! " 

CARR  VIPONT.  —  "Whom  do  you  mean?  Ah,  I  know!  — 
Guy  Darrell.  His  wife  was  a  Vipont;  and  he  is  not  here. 
But  he  has  long  since  ceased  to  communicate  with  any  of  us ; 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  405 

the  only  connection  that  ever  fell  away  from  the  House  of 
Vipont,  especially  in  a  CRISIS  like  the  present.  Singular 
man!  For  all  the  use  he  is  to  us,  he  might  as  well  be  dead! 
But  he  has  a  fine  fortune :  what  will  he  do  with  it?  " 

THE  DUCHESS.  — "  My  dear  Lady  Montfort,  you  have  hurt 
yourself  with  that  paper  cutter." 

LADY  MONTFORT. — "No,  indeed.  Hush!  we  are  disturb- 
ing Mr.  Carr  Vipont ! " 

The  Duchess,  in  awe  of  Carr  Vipont,  sinks  her  voice,  and 
gabbles  on,  whisperously. 

CARR  VIPONT  (resuming  the  subject).  —  "A  very  fine  for- 
tune: what  will  he  do  with  it?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. — "I  don't  know;  but  I  had  a  letter 
from  him  some  months  ago." 

CARR  VIPONT.  —  "  You  had,  and  never  told  me ! " 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  — "  Of  no  importance  to  you,  my  dear 
Carr.  His  letter  merely  introduced  to  me  a  charming  young 
fellow, —  a  kinsman  of  his  own  (no  Vipont), —  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton,  son  of  poor  Charlie  Haughton,  whom  you  may  remember." 

CARR  VIPONT.  — "  Yes,  a  handsome  scamp ;  went  to  the 
dogs.  So  Darrell  takes  up  Charlie's  son:  what!  as  his  heir?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  — "  In  his  letter  to  me  he  anticipated 
that  question  in  the  negative." 

CARR  VIPONT.  — "Has  Darrell  any  nearer  kinsman?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  —  "Not  that  I  know  of." 

CARR  VIPONT.  —  "Perhaps  he  will  select  one  of  his  wife's 
family  for  his  heir, — a  Vipont;  I  should  not  wonder." 

COLONEL  MORLEY  (dryly).  —  "I  should.  But  why  may  not 
Darrell  marry  again?  I  always  thought  he  would;  I  think  so 
still." 

CARR  VIPONT  (glancing  towards  his  own  daughter  Honoria). 
—  "Well,  a  wife  well  chosen  might  restore  him  to  society, 
and  to  us.  Pity,  indeed,  that  so  great  an  intellect  should  be 
suspended, —  a  voice  so  eloquent  hushed.  You  are  right;  in 
this  CRISIS,  Guy  Darrell  once  more  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
we  should  have  all  we  require, — an  orator,  a  debater!  Very 
odd,  but  at  this  moment  we  have  no  speakers, — WE  the 
Viponts!" 


406  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

COLONEL  MOBLEY.  —  "  Yourself  I  " 

CARK  VIPONT.  —  "You  are  too  kind.  I  can  speak  on  occa- 
sions; but  regularly,  no.  Too  much  drudgery;  not  young 
enough  to  take  to  it  now.  So  you  think  Darrell  will  marry 
again?  A  remarkably  fine-looking  fellow  when  I  last  saw 
him:  not  old  yet;  I  dare  say  well  preserved.  I  wish  I  had 
thought  of  asking  him  here  —  Montfort!"  (Lord  Montfort, 
with  one  or  two  male  friends,  was  passing  by  towards  a  bil- 
liard-room, opening  through  a  side-door  from  the  regular 
suite)  "  Montfort !  only  think,  we  forgot  to  invite  Guy  Darrell. 
Is  it  too  late  before  our  party  breaks  up?" 

LORD  MONTFORT  (sullenly).  — "I  don't  choose  Guy  Darrell 
to  be  invited  to  my  house." 

Carr  Vipont  was  literally  stunned  by  a  reply  so  contuma- 
cious. Lord  Montfort  demur  at  what  Carr  Vipont  suggested? 
He  could  not  believe  his  senses. 

"  Not  choose,  my  dear  Montfort !  you  are  joking.  A  mon- 
strous clever  fellow,  Guy  Darrell,  and  at  this  CRISIS  —  " 

"  I  hate  clever  fellows ;  no  such  bores !  "  said  Lord  Montfort, 
breaking  from  the  caressing  clasp  of  Carr  Vipont,  and  stalking 
away. 

"Spare  your  regrets,  my  dear  Carr,"  said  Colonel  Morley. 
"Darrell  is  not  in  England:  I  rather  believe  he  is  in  Verona." 

Therewith  the  Colonel  sauntered  towards  the  group  gath- 
ered round  the  piano.  A  little  time  afterwards  Lady 
Montfort  escaped  from  the  Duchess,  and,  mingling  courte- 
ously with  her  livelier  guests,  found  herself  close  to  Colonel 
Morley.  "Will  you  give  me  my  revenge  at  chess?"  she 
asked,  with  her  rare  smile.  The  Colonel  was  charmed.  As 
they  sat  down  and  ranged  their  men,  Lady  Montfort  remarked 
carelessly, — 

"  I  overheard  you  say  you  had  lately  received  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Darrell.  Does  he  write  as  if  well, — cheerful?  You  re- 
member that  I  was  much  with  his  daughter,  much  in  his 
house,  when  I  was  a  child.  He  was  ever  most  kind  to  me." 

Lady  Montfort's  voice  here  faltered. 

"He  writes  with  no  reference  to  himself,  his  health,  or 
his  spirits.  But  his  young  kinsman  described  him  to  me  as 


WHAT  WILL    HE  DO  WITH  IT?  407 

in  good  health, — wonderfully  young-looking  for  his  years. 
But  cheerful, —  no !  Darrell  and  I  entered  the  world  together; 
we  were  friends  as  much  as  a  man  so  busy  and  so  eminent  as 
he  could  be  friends  with  a  man  like  myself,  indolent  by  habit 
and  obscure  out  of  May  fair.  I  know  his  nature;  we  both 
know  something  of  his  family  sorrows.  He  cannot  be  happy! 
Impossible !  —  alone,  childless,  secluded.  Poor  Darrell,  abroad 
now;  in  Verona,  too! — the  dullest  place!  in  mourning  still 
for  Romeo  and  Juliet!  'Tis  your  turn  to  move.  In  his 
letter  Darrell  talked  of  going  on  to  Greece,  Asia,  penetrating 
into  the  depths  of  Africa, —  the  wildest  schemes!  Dear 
County  Guy,  as  we  called  him  at  Eton!  what  a  career  his 
might  have  been!  Don't  let  us  talk  of  him,  it  makes  me 
mournful.  Like  Goethe,  I  avoid  painful  subjects  upon 
principle." 

LADY  MONTFORT.  —  "  No ;  we  will  not  talk  of  him.  No ;  I 
take  the  Queen's  pawn.  No,  we  will  not  talk  of  him !  no ! " 

The  game  proceeded;  the  Colonel  was  within  three  moves 
of  checkmating  his  adversary.  Forgetting  the  resolution 
come  to,  he  said,  as  she  paused,  and  seemed  despondently 
meditating  a  hopeless  defence, — 

"Pray,  my  fair  cousin,  what  makes  Montfort  dislike  my 
old  friend  Darrell?" 

"Dislike!  Does  he!  I  don't  know.  Vanquished  again, 
Colonel  Morley ! "  She  rose ;  and  as  he  restored  the  chess- 
men to  their  box,  she  leaned  thoughtfully  over  the  table. 

"This  young  kinsman,  will  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  Mr. 
Darrell?" 

"He  would  be  a  comfort  and  a  pride  to  a  father;  but  to 
Darrell,  so  distant  a  kinsman, —  comfort! — why  and  how? 
Darrell  will  provide  for  him,  that  is  all.  A  very  gentleman- 
like young  man;  gone  to  Paris  by  my  advice;  wants  polish 
and  knowledge  of  life.  When  he  comes  back  he  must  enter 
society:  I  have  put  his  name  up  at  White's;  may  I  introduce 
him  to  you?  " 

Lady  Montfort  hesitated,  and,  after  a  pause,  said,  almost 
rudely,  "No." 

She  left  the  Colonel,  slightly  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and 


408  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

passed  into  the  billiard-room  with  a  quick  step.  Some  ladies 
were  already  there  looking  at  the  players.  Lord  Montfort 
was  chalking  his  cue.  Lady  Montfort  walked  straight  up  to 
him:  her  colour  was  heightened;  her  lip  was  quivering;  she 
placed  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a  wife-like  boldness. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  had  come  there  to  seek  him  from  an  im- 
pulse of  affection.  She  asked  with  a  hurried  fluttering  kind- 
ness of  voice,  if  he  had  been  successful,  and  called  him 
by  his  Christian  name.  Lord  Montfort's  countenance,  before 
merely  apathetic,  now  assumed  an  expression  of  extreme  dis- 
taste. "  Come  to  teach  me  to  make  a  cannon,  I  suppose !  "  he 
said  mutteringly,  and  turning  from  her,  contemplated  the 
balls  and  missed  the  cannon. 

"Rather  in  my  way,  Lady  Montfort,"  said  he  then,  and, 
retiring  to  a  corner,  said  no  more. 

Lady  Montfort's  countenance  became  still  more  flushed. 
She  lingered  a  moment,  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  unusually  animated,  gracious, 
fascinating.  As  she  retired  with  her  lady  guests  for  the 
night  she  looked  round,  saw  Colonel  Morley,  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him. 

"Your  nephew  comes  here  to-morrow,"  said  she,  "my  old 
play-fellow;  impossible  quite  to  forget  old  friends;  good 
night." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
"LE8  extremes  se  touchent." 

THE  next  day  the  gentlemen  were  dispersed  out  of  doors, — 
a  large  shooting  party.  Those  who  did  not  shoot,  walked 
forth  to  inspect  the  racing  stud  or  the  model  farm.  The 
ladies  had  taken  their  walk;  some  were  in  their  own  rooms, 
some  in  the  reception-rooms,  at  work,  or  reading,  or  listening 
to  the  piano, —  Honoria  Carr  Vipont  again  performing.  Lady 
Montfort  was  absent;  Lady  Selina  kindly  supplied  the  host- 
ess's place.  Lady  Selina  was  embroidering,  with  great  skill 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  409 

and  taste,  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her  eldest  boy,  who  was  just 
entered  at  Oxford,  having  left  Eton  with  a  reputation  of  being 
the  neatest  dresser,  and  not  the  worst  cricketer,  of  that  re- 
nowned educational  institute.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
fine  ladies  are  not  sometimes  very  fond  mothers  and  affec- 
tionate wives.  Lady  Selina,  beyond  her  family  circle,  was 
trivial,  unsympathizing,  cold-hearted,  supercilious  by  tem- 
perament, never  kind  but  through  policy,  artificial  as  clock- 
work. But  in  her  own  home,  to  her  husband,  her  children, 
Lady  Selina  was  a  very  good  sort  of  woman, —  devotedly  at- 
tached to  Carr  Vipont,  exaggerating  his  talents,  thinking  him 
the  first  man  in  England,  careful  of  his  honour,  zealous  for 
his  interest,  soothing  in  his  cares,  tender  in  his  ailments; 
to  her  girls  prudent  and  watchful,  to  her  boys  indulgent  and 
caressing;  minutely  attentive  to  the  education  of  the  first,  ac- 
cording to  her  high-bred  ideas  of  education, —  and  they  really 
were  "superior"  girls,  with  much  instruction  and  well-bal- 
anced minds, —  less  authoritative  with  the  last,  because  boys 
being  not  under  her  immediate  control,  her  sense  of  responsi- 
bility allowed  her  to  display  more  fondness  and  less  dignity 
in  her  intercourse  with  them  than  with  young  ladies  who 
must  learn  from  her  example,  as  well  as  her  precepts,  the  pa- 
trician decorum  which  becomes  the  smooth  result  of  impulse 
restrained  and  emotion  checked :  boys  might  make  a  noise  in 
the  world,  girls  should  make  none.  Lady  Selina,  then,  was 
working  the  slippers  for  her  absent  son,  her  heart  being  full 
of  him  at  that  moment.  She  was  describing  his  character 
and  expatiating  on  his  promise  to  two  or  three  attentive  lis- 
teners, all  interested,  as  being  themselves  of  the  Vipont 
blood,  in  the  probable  destiny  of  the  heir  to  the  Carr  Viponts. 
"In  short,"  said  Lady  Selina,  winding  up,  "as  soon  as 
Reginald  is  of  age  we  shall  get  him  into  Parliament.  Carr 
has  always  lamented  that  he  himself  was  not  broken  into 
office  early;  Keginald  must  be.  Nothing  so  requisite  for 
public  men  as  early  training;  makes  them  practical,  and  not 
too  sensitive  to  what  those  horrid  newspaper  men  say.  That 
was  Pitt's  great  advantage.  Reginald  has  ambition  ;  he 
should  have  occupation  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  It  is  an 


410  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

anxious  thing  for  a  mother,  when  a  son  is  good-looking:  such 
danger  of  his  being  spoiled  by  the  women.  Yes,  my  dear,  it 
is  a  small  foot,  very  small, —  his  father's  foot." 

"If  Lord  Montfort  should  have  no  family,"  said  a  somewhat 
distant  and  subaltern  Vipont,  whisperingly  and  hesitating, 
"does  not  the  title  —  " 

"No,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady  Selina;  "no,  the  title 
does  not  come  to  us.  It  is  a  melancholy  thought,  but  the 
marquisate,  in  that  case,  is  extinct.  No  other  heir-male  from 
Gilbert,  the  first  marquess.  Carr  says  there  is  even  likely  to 
be  some  dispute  about  the  earldom.  The  Barony,  of  course, 
is  safe ;  goes  with  the  Irish  estates,  and  most  of  the  English ; 
and  goes  (don't  you  know?)  to  Sir  James  Vipont,  the  last 
person  who  ought  to  have  it ;  the  quietest,  stupidest  creature ; 
not  brought  up  to  the  sort  of  thing, —  a  mere  gentleman- 
farmer  on  a  small  estate  in  Devonshire." 

"He  is  not  here?" 

"No.  Lord  Montfort  does  not  like  him.  Very  natural. 
Nobody  likes  his  heir,  if  not  his  own  child ;  and  some  people 
don't  even  like  their  own  eldest  sons!  Shocking;  but  so  it  is. 
Montfort  is  the  kindest,  most  tractable  being  that  ever  was, 
except  where  he  takes  a  dislike.  He  dislikes  two  or  three 
people  very  much." 

"True;  how  he  did  dislike  poor  Mrs.  Lyndsay!"  said  one 
of  the  listeners,  smiling. 

"Mrs.  Lyndsay,  yes, —  dear  Lady  Montfort's  mother.  I 
can't  say  I  pitied  her,  though  I  was  sorry  for  Lady  Montfort. 
How  Mrs.  Lyndsay  ever  took  in  Montfort  for  Caroline  I  can't 
conceive !  How  she  had  the  face  to  think  of  it !  He,  a  mere 
youth  at  the  time!  Kept  secret  from  all  his  family,  even 
from  his  grandmother, — the  darkest  transaction.  I  don't 
wonder  that  he  never  forgave  it." 

FIRST  LISTENER.  —  "  Caroline  has  beauty  enough  to  —  " 

LADY  SELINA  (interrupting). — "Beauty,  of  course:  no  one 
can  deny  that.  But  not  at  all  suited  to  such  a  position,  not 
"brought  up  to  the  sort  of  thing.  Poor  Montfort !  he  should 
have  married  a  different  kind  of  woman  altogether, — a  woman 
like  his  grandmother,  the  last  Lady  Montfort.  Caroline  does 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  411 

nothing  for  the  House, — nothing;  has  not  even  a  child, — 
most  unfortunate  affair." 

SECOND  LISTENER.  — "  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was  very  poor,  was 
not  she?  Caroline,  I  suppose,  had  no  opportunity  of  forming 
those  tastes  and  habits  which  are  necessary  for  —  for  —  " 

LADY  SELINA  (helping  the  listener).  — "For  such  a  position 
and  such  a  fortune.  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear.  People 
brought  up  in  one  way  cannot  accommodate  themselves  to  an- 
other; and  it  is  odd,  but  I  have  observed  that  people  brought 
up  poor  can  accommodate  themselves  less  to  being  very  rich 
than  people  brought  up  rich  can  accommodate  themselves  to 
being  very  poor.  As  Carr  says,  in  his  pointed  way,  'It  is 
easier  to  stoop  than  to  climb.'  Yes;  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was,  you 
know,  a  daughter  of  Seymour  Vipont,  who  was  for  so  many 
years  in  the  Administration,  with  a  fair  income  from  his  sal- 
ary, and  nothing  out  of  it.  She  married  one  of  the  Scotch 
Lyndsay s, —  good  family,  of  course,  with  a  very  moderate 
property.  She  was  left  a  widow  young,  with  an  only  child, 
Caroline.  Came  to  town  with  a  small  jointure.  The  late 
Lady  Montf ort  was  very  kind  to  her.  So  were  we  all ;  took 
her  up;  pretty  woman;  pretty  manners;  worldly, —  oh,  very! 
I  don't  like  worldly  people.  Well,  but  all  of  a  sudden  a 
dreadful  thing  happened.  The  heir-at-law  disputed  the  joint- 
ure, denied  that  Lyndsay  had  any  right  to  make  settlements 
on  the  Scotch  property;  very  complicated  business.  But, 
luckily  for  her,  Vipont  Crooke's  daughter,  her  cousin  and 
intimate  friend,  had  married  Darrell,  the  famous  Darrell, 
who  was  then  at  the  bar.  It  is  very  useful  to  have  cousins 
married  to  clever  people.  He  was  interested  in  her  case, 
took  it  up.  I  believe  it  did  not  come  on  in  the  courts  in 
which  Darrell  practised.  But  he  arranged  all  the  evidence,  in- 
spected the  briefs,  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  own  money  in  get- 
ting up  the  case ;  and  in  fact  he  gained  her  cause,  though  he 
could  not  be  her  counsel.  People  did  say  that  she  was  so 
grateful  that  after  his  wife's  death  she  had  set  her  heart  on 
becoming  Mrs.  Darrell  the  second.  But  Darrell  was  then 
quite  wrapped  up  in  politics, — the  last  man  to  fall  in  love, — 
and  only  looked  bored  when  women  fell  in  love  with  him, 


412  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

which  a  good  many  did.  Grand-looking  creature,  my  dear, 
and  quite  the  rage  for  a  year  or  two.  However,  Mrs. 
Lyndsay  all  of  a  sudden  went  off  to  Paris,  and  there  Montfort 
saw  Caroline,  and  was  caught.  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  no  doubt,  cal- 
culated on  living  with  her  daughter,  having  the  run  of 
Montfort  House  in  town  and  Montfort  Court  in  the  country. 
But  Montfort  is  deeper  than  people  think  for.  No,  he  never 
forgave  her.  She  was  never  asked  here;  took  it  to  heart, 
went  to  Rome,  and  died." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  George  Morley,  now 
the  Rev.  George  Morley,  entered,  just  arrived  to  join  his 
cousins. 

Some  knew  him,  some  did  not.  Lady  Selina,  who  made  it 
a  point  to  know  all  the  cousins,  rose  graciously,  put  aside  the 
slippers,  and  gave  him  two  fingers.  She  was  astonished  to 
find  him  not  nearly  so  shy  as  he  used  to  be :  wonderfully  im- 
proved; at  his  ease,  cheerful,  animated.  The  man  now  was 
in  his  right  place,  and  following  hope  on  the  bent  of  inclina- 
tion. Few  men  are  shy  when  in  their  right  places.  He 
asked  after  Lady  Montfort.  She  was  in  her  own  small  sit- 
ting-room, writing  letters,  —  letters  that  Carr  Vipont  had  en- 
treated her  to  write, —  correspondence  useful  to  the  House  of 
Vipont.  Before  long,  however,  a  servant  entered,  to  say  that 
Lady  Montfort  would  be  very  happy  to  see  Mr.  Morley. 
George  followed  the  servant  into  that  unpretending  sitting- 
room,  with  its  simple  chintzes  and  quiet  bookshelves, —  room 
that  would  not  have  been  too  fine  for  a  cottage. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  every  life,  go  it  fast,  go  it  slow,  there  are  critical  pausing-places.     When 
the  journey  is  renewed  the  face  of  the  country  is  changed. 

How  well  she  suited  that  simple  room;  herself  so  simply 
dressed,  her  marvellous  beauty  so  exquisitely  subdued !  She 
looked  at  home  there,  as  if  all  of  home  that  the  house  could 
give  were  there  collected. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  413 

She  had  finished  and  sealed  the  momentous  letters,  and  had 
come,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  from  the  table  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  on  which  those  letters,  ceremonious  and  conven- 
tional, had  been  written, — come  to  the  window,  which,  though 
midwinter,  was  open,  and  the  redbreast,  with  whom  she  had 
made  friends,  hopped  boldly  almost  within  reach,  looking  at 
her  with  bright  eyes  and  head  curiously  aslant.  By  the 
window  a  single  chair,  and  a  small  reading-desk,  with  the 
book  lying  open.  The  short  day  was  not  far  from  its  close, 
but  there  was  ample  light  still  in  the  skies,  and  a  serene  if 
•  chilly  stillness  in  the  air  without. 

Though  expecting  the  relation  she  had  just  summoned  to 
her  presence,  I  fear  she  had  half  forgotten  him.  She  was 
standing  by  the  window  deep  in  revery  as  he  entered,  so 
deep  that  she  started  when  his  voice  struck  her  ear  and  he 
stood  before  her.  She  recovered  herself  quickly,  however, 
and  said  with  even  more  than  her  ordinary  kindliness  of  tone 
and  manner  towards  the  scholar,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  and 
congratulate  you." 

"And  I  so  glad  to  receive  your  congratulations,"  answered 
the  scholar  in  smooth,  slow  voice,  without  a  stutter. 

"But,  George,  how  is  this?"  asked  Lady  Montfort.  "Bring 
that  chair,  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  You 
wrote  me  word  you  were  cured, —  at  least  sufficiently  to  re- 
move your  noble  scruples.  You  did  not  say  how.  Your  uncle 
tells  me,  by  patient  will  and  resolute  practice." 

"  Under  good  guidance.  But  I  am  going  to  confide  to  you  a 
secret,  if  you  will  promise  to  keep  it." 

"Oh,  you  may  trust  me:  I  have  no  female  friends." 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  spoke  at  once  of  the  lessons  he 
had  received  from  the  basketmaker. 

"I  have  his  permission,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "to  confide 
the  service  he  rendered  me,  the  intimacy  that  has  sprung  up 
between  us,  but  to  you  alone, —  not  a  word  to  your  guests. 
When  you  have  once  seen  him,  you  will  understand  why  an 
eccentric  man,  who  has  known  better  days,  would  shrink 
from  the  impertinent  curiosity  of  idle  customers.  Contented 
with  his  humble  livelihood,  he  asks  but  liberty  and  repose." 


414  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

"That  I  already  comprehend,"  said  Lady  Montfort,  half 
sighing,  half  smiling.  "But  my  curiosity  shall  not  molest 
him,  and  when  I  visit  the  village,  I  will  pass  by  his  cottage." 

"Nay,  my  dear  Lady  Montfort,  that  would  be  to  refuse  the 
favour  I  am  about  to  ask,  which  is  that  you  would  come  with 
me  to  that  very  cottage.  It  would  so  please  him." 

"Please  him!  why?" 

"Because  this  poor  man  has  a  young  female  grandchild, 
and  he  is  so  anxious  that  you  should  see  and  be  kind  to  her, 
and  because,  too,  he  seems  most  anxious  to  remain  in  his 
present  residence.  The  cottage,  of  course,  belongs  to  Lord 
Montfort,  and  is  let  to  him  by  the  bailiff,  and  if  you  deign  to 
feel  interest  in  him,  his  tenure  is  safe." 

Lady  Montfort  looked  down,  and  coloured.  She  thought, 
perhaps,  how  false  a  security  her  protection,  and  how  slight 
an  influence  her  interest  would  be ;  but  she  did  not  say  so. 
George  went  on ;  and  so  eloquently,  and  so  touchingly  did  he 
describe  both  grandsire  and  grandchild,  so  skilfully  did  he 
intimate  the  mystery  which  hung  over  them,  that  Lady 
Montfort  became  much  moved  by  his  narrative,  and  willingly 
promised  to  accompany  him  across  the  park  to  the  basket- 
maker's  cottage  the  first  opportunity.  But  when  one  has 
sixty  guests  in  one's  house,  one  has  to  wait  for  an  opportun- 
ity to  escape  from  them  unremarked.  And  the  opportunity, 
in  fact,  did  not  come  for  many  days ;  not  till  the  party  broke 
up,  save  one  or  two  dowager  she-cousins  who  "gave  no 
trouble,"  and  one  or  two  bachelor  he-cousins  whom  my  lord 
retained  to  consummate  the  slaughter  of  pheasants,  and  play 
at  billiards  in  the  drear}-  intervals  between  sunset  and  dinner, 
dinner  and  bedtime. 

Then  one  cheerful  frosty  noon  George  Morley  and  his  fair 
cousin  walked  boldly  en  evidence,  before  the  prying  ghostly 
windows,  across  the  broad  gravel  walks ;  gained  the  secluded 
shrubbery,  the  solitary  deeps  of  park-land;  skirted  the  wide 
sheet  of  water,  and,  passing  through  a  private  wicket  in  the 
paling,  suddenly  came  upon  the  patch  of  osier-ground  and 
humble  garden,  which  were  backed  by  the  basketmaker's 
cottage. 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  415 

As  they  entered  those  lowly  precincts  a  child's  laugh  was 
borne  to  their  ears, —  a  child's  silvery,  musical,  mirthful 
laugh;  it  was  long  since  the  great  lady  had  heard  a  laugh 
like  that, — a  happy  child's  natural  laugh.  She  paused  and 
listened  with  a  strange  pleasure.  "Yes,"  whispered  George 
Morley,  "stop  —  and  hush!  there  they  are." 

Waife  was  seated  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,  materials  for  his 
handicraft  lying  beside  neglected.  Sophy  was  standing  be- 
fore him, —  he  raising  his  finger  as  if  in  reproof,  and  striving 
hard  to  frown.  As  the  intruders  listened,  they  overheard 
that  he  was  striving  to  teach  her  the  rudiments  of  French 
dialogue,  and  she  was  laughing  merrily  at  her  own  blunders, 
and  at  the  solemn  affectation  of  the  shocked  schoolmaster. 
Lady  Montfort  noted  with  no  unnatural  surprise  the  purity 
of  idiom  and  of  accent  with  which  this  singular  basketmaker 
was  unconsciously  displaying  his  perfect  knowledge  of  a  lan- 
guage which  the  best-educated  English  gentleman  of  that 
generation,  nay,  even  of  this,  rarely  speaks  with  accuracy 
and  elegance.  But  her  attention  was  diverted  immediately 
from  the  teacher  to  the  face  of  the  sweet  pupil.  Women 
have  a  quick  appreciation  of  beauty  in  their  own  sex;  and 
women  who  are  themselves  beautiful,  not  the  least.  Irre- 
sistibly Lady  Montfort  felt  attracted  towards  that  innocent 
countenance  so  lively  in  its  mirth,  and  yet  so  softly  gay.  Sir 
Isaac,  who  had  hitherto  lain  perdu,  watching  the  movements 
of  a  thrush  amidst  a  holly-bush,  now  started  up  with  a  bark. 
Waife  rose;  Sophy  turned  half  in  flight.  The  visitors 
approached. 

Here  slowly,  lingeringly,  let  fall  the  curtain.  In  the  frank 
license  of  narrative,  years  will  have  rolled  away  ere  the  cur- 
tain rise  again.  Events  that  may  influence  a  life  often  date 
from  moments  the  most  serene,  from  things  that  appear  as 
trivial  and  unnoticeable  as  the  great  lady's  visit  to  the 
basketmaker's  cottage.  Which  of  those  lives  will  that  visit 
influence  hereafter, — the  woman's,  the  child's,  the  vagrant's? 
Whose?  Probably  little  that  passes  now  would  aid  conject- 
ure, or  be  a  visible  link  in  the  chain  of  destiny.  A  few  des- 
ultory questions;  a  few  guarded  answers;  a  look  or  so,  a 


416  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

musical  syllable  or  two,  exchanged  between  the  lady  and  the 
child;  a  basket  bought,  or  a  promise  to  call  again.  Nothing 
worth  the  telling.  Be  it  then  untold.  View  only  the  scene 
itself  as  the  curtain  drops  reluctantly.  The  rustic  cottage, 
its  garden-door  open,  and  open  its  old-fashioned  lattice  case- 
ments. You  can  see  how  neat  and  cleanly,  how  eloquent  of 
healthful  poverty,  how  remote  from  squalid  penury,  the 
whitewashed  walls,  the  homely  furniture  within.  Creepers 
lately  trained  around  the  doorway;  Christmas  holly,  with 
berries  red  against  the  window-panes;  the  bee-hive  yonder; 
a  starling,  too,  outside  the  threshold,  in  its  wicker  cage;  in 
the  background  (all  the  rest  of  the  neighbouring  hamlet  out 
of  sight),  the  church  spire  tapering  away  into  the  clear  blue 
wintry  sky.  All  has  an  air  of  repose,  of  safety.  Close  be- 
side you  is  the  Presence  of  HOME;  that  ineffable,  sheltering, 
loving  Presence,  which  amidst  solitude  murmurs  "not  soli- 
tary, " —  a  Presence  unvouchsaf ed  to  the  great  lady  in  the  pal- 
aoe  she  has  left.  And  the  lady  herself?  She  is  resting  on 
the  rude  gnarled  root-stump  from  which  the  vagrant  had 
risen ;  she  has  drawn  Sophy  towards  her ;  she  has  taken  the 
child's  hand;  she  is  speaking  now,  now  listening;  and  on  her 
face  kindness  looks  like  happiness.  Perhaps  she  is  happy 
that  moment.  And  Waife?  he  is  turning  aside  his  weather- 
beaten  mobile  countenance  with  his  hand  anxiously  trembling 
upon  the  young  scholar's  arm.  The  scholar  whispers,  "  Are 
you  satisfied  with  me?"  and  Waife  answers  in  a  voice  as  low 
but  more  broken,  "  God  reward  you !  Oh,  joy !  if  my  pretty 
one  has  found  at  last  a  woman  friend ! "  Poor  vagabond,  he 
has  now  a  calm  asylum,  a  fixed  humble  livelihood;  more  than 
that,  he  has  just  achieved  an  object  fondly  cherished.  His 
past  life, —  alas!  what  has  he  done  with  it?  His  actual  life, 
broken  fragment  though  it  be,  is  at  rest  now.  But  still  the 
everlasting  question, — mocking  terrible  question,  with  its 
phrasing  of  farce  and  its  enigmas  of  tragical  sense, —  "WHAT 
WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  "  Do  with  what?  The  all  that  remains 
to  him,  the  all  he  holds !  the  all  which  man  himself,  betwixt 
Free-will  and  Pre-decree,  is  permitted  to  do.  Ask  not  the 
vagrant  alone :  ask  each  of  the  four  there  assembled  on  that 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  417 

flying  bridge  called  the  Moment.  Time  before  thee, — what 
wilt  thou  do  with  it?  Ask  thyself!  ask  the  wisest!  Out  of 
effort  to  answer  that  question,  what  dream-schools  have  risen, 
never  wholly  to  perish, — the  science  of  seers  on  the  Chal- 
dee's  Pur-Tor,  or  in  the  rock-caves  of  Delphi,  gasped  after 
and  grasped  at  by  horn-handed  mechanics  to-day  in  their 
lanes  and  alleys.  To  the  heart  of  the  populace  sink  down 
the  blurred  relics  of  what  once  was  the  law  of  the  secretest 
sages,  hieroglyphical  tatters  which  the  credulous  vulgar  at- 
tempt to  interpret.  "WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?"  Ask 
Merle  and  his  Crystal!  But  the  curtain  descends!  Yet  a 
moment,  there  they  are, —  age  and  childhood, — poverty, 
wealth,  station,  vagabondage;  the  preacher's  sacred  learning 
and  august  ambition;  fancies  of  dawning  reason;  hopes  of 
intellect  matured;  memories  of  existence  wrecked;  household 
sorrows ;  untold  regrets ;  elegy  and  epic  in  low,  close,  human 
sighs,  to  which  Poetry  never  yet  gave  voice :  all  for  the  mo- 
ment personified  there  before  you, —  a  glimpse  for  the  guess, 
no  more.  Lower  and  lower  falls  the  curtain !  All  is  blank ! 


VOL.  i.  — 27 


BOOK    VI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ETCHINGS  of  Hyde  Park  in  the  month  of  June,  which,  if  this  history  escapes 
those  villains  the  trunk-makers,  may  be  of  inestimable  value  to  unborn 
antiquarians.  —  Characters,  long  absent,  reappear  and  give  some  account 
of  themselves. 

FIVE  years  have  passed  away  since  this  history  opened.  It 
is  the  month  of  June  once  more, —  June,  which  clothes  our 
London  in  all  its  glory,  fills  its  languid  ballrooms  with  living 
flowers,  and  its  stony  causeways  with  human  butterflies.  It 
is  about  the  hour  of  six  P.M.  The  lounge  in  Hyde  Park  is 
crowded;  along  the  road  that  skirts  the  Serpentine  crawl  the 
carriages  one  after  the  other ;  congregate  by  the  rails  the  lazy 
lookers-on, — lazy  in  attitude,  but  with  active  eyes,  and  tongues 
sharpened  on  the  whetstone  of  scandal,  —  the  Scaligers  of  club 
windows  airing  their  vocabulary  in  the  Park.  Slowly  saun- 
ter on  foot  idlers  of  all  degrees  in  the  hierarchy  of  London 
idlesse :  dandies  of  established  fame ;  youthful  tyros  in  their 
first  season.  Yonder  in  the  Ride,  forms  less  inanimate  seem 
condemned  to  active  exercise ;  young  ladies  doing  penance  in 
a  canter;  old  beaux  at  hard  labour  in  a  trot.  Sometimes,  by 
a  more  thoughtful  brow,  a  still  brisker  pace,  you  recognize  a 
busy  member  of  the  Imperial  Parliament,  who,  advised  by 
physicians  to  be  as  much  on  horseback  as  possible,  snatches 
an  hour  or  so  in  the  interval  between  the  close  of  his  Com- 
mittee and  the  interest  of  the  Debate,  and  shirks  the  opening 
speech  of  a  well-known  bore.  Among  such  truant  lawgivers 
(grief  it  is  to  say  it)  may  be  seen  that  once  model  member, 
Sir  Gregory  Stollhead.  Grim  dyspepsia  seizing  on  him  at 
last,  "  relaxation  from  his  duties  "  becomes  the  adequate  pun- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  419 

ishment  for  all  his  sins.  Solitary  he  rides,  and  communing 
with  himself,  yawns  at  every  second.  Upon  chairs  benefi- 
cently located  under  the  trees  towards  the  north  side  of  the 
walk  are  interspersed  small  knots  and  coteries  in  repose. 
There  you  might  see  the  Ladies  Prymme,  still  the  Ladies 
Prymme,  —  Janet  and  Wilhelmina ;  Janet  has  grown  fat, 
Wilhelmina  thin.  But  thin  or  fat,  they  are  no  less  Prymmes. 
They  do  not  lack  male  attendants;  they  are  girls  of  high 
fashion,  with  whom  young  men  think  it  a  distinction  to  be 
seen  talking;  of  high  principle,  too,  and  high  pretensions 
(unhappily  for  themselves,  they  are  co-heiresses),  by  whom 
young  men  under  the  rank  of  earls  need  not  fear  to  be  artfully 
entrapped  into  "honourable  intentions."  They  coquet  majes- 
tically, but  they  never  flirt ;  they  exact  devotion,  but  they  do 
not  ask  in  each  victim  a  sacrifice  on  the  horns  of  the  altar; 
they  will  never  give  their  hands  where  they  do  not  give  their 
hearts ;  and  being  ever  afraid  that  they  are  courted  for  their 
money,  they  will  never  give  their  hearts  save  to  wooers  who 
have  much  more  money  than  themselves.  Many  young  men 
stop  to  do  passing  homage  to  the  Ladies  Prymme :  some  lin- 
ger to  converse;  safe  young  men, —  they  are  all  younger  sons. 
Farther  on,  Lady  Frost  and  Mr.  Crampe,  the  wit,  sit  amicably 
side  by  side,  pecking  at  each  other  with  sarcastic  beaks ;  oc- 
casionally desisting,  in  order  to  fasten  nip  and  claw  upon 
that  common  enemy,  the  passing  friend !  The  Slowes,  a  nu- 
merous family,  but  taciturn,  sit  by  themselves;  bowed  to 
much,  accosted  rarely. 

Note  that  man  of  good  presence,  somewhere  about  thirty,  or 
a  year  or  two  more,  who,  recognized  by  most  of  the  loungers, 
seems  not  at  home  in  the  lounge.  He  has  passed  by  the  vari- 
ous coteries  just  described,  made  his  obeisance  to  the  Ladies 
Prymme,  received  an  icy  epigram  from  Lady  Frost,  and  a  la- 
conic sneer  from  Mr.  Crampe,  and  exchanged  silent  bows 
with  seven  silent  Slowes.  He  has  wandered  on,  looking  high 
in  the  air,  but  still  looking  for  some  one  not  in  the  air,  and 
evidently  disappointed  in  his  search,  comes  to  a  full  stop  at 
length,  takes  off  his  hat,  wipes  his  brow,  utters  a  petulant 
"Prr  —  r  —  pshaw!"  and  seeing,  a  little  in  the  background, 


420  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

the  chairless  shade  of  a  thin,  emaciated,  dusty  tree,  thither 
he  retires,  and  seats  himself  with  as  little  care  whether  there 
to  seat  himself  be  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place,  as  if  in 
the  honeysuckle  arbour  of  a  village  inn.  "It  serves  me 
right,"  said  he  to  himself:  "a  precocious  villain  bursts  in 
upon  me,  breaks  my  day,  makes  an  appointment  to  meet  me 
here,  in  these  very  walks,  ten  minutes  before  six;  decoys  me 
with  the  promise  of  a  dinner  at  Putney, — room  looking  on 
the  river  and  fried  flounders.  I  have  the  credulity  to  yield : 
I  derange  my  habits;  I  leave  my  cool  studio;  I  put  off  my 
easy  blouse;  I  imprison  my  freeborn  throat  in  a  cravat  in- 
vented by  the  Thugs ;  the  dog-days  are  at  hand,  and  I  walk 
rashly  over  scorching  pavements  in  a  black  frock-coat  and  a 
brimless  hat;  I  annihilate  3s.  6d.  in  a  pair  of  kid  gloves;  I 
arrive  at  this  haunt  of  spleen;  I  run  the  gauntlet  of  Frosts, 
Slowes,  and  Prymmes:  and  my  traitor  fails  me!  Half-past 
six, — not  a  sign  of  him!  and  the  dinner  at  Putney, —  fried 
flounders?  Dreams!  Patience,  five  minutes  more;  if  then 
he  comes  not,  breach  for  life  between  him  and  me !  Ah,  voila  ! 
there  he  comes,  the  laggard!  But  how  those  fine  folks  are 
catching  at  him!  Has  he  asked  them  also  to  dinner  at 
Putney,  and  do  they  care  for  fried  flounders?" 

The  soliloquist's  eye  is  on  a  young  man,  much  younger 
than  himself,  who  is  threading  the  motley  crowd  with  a  light 
quick  step,  but  is  compelled  to  stop  at  each  moment  to  inter- 
change a  word  of  welcome,  a  shake  of  the  hand.  Evidently 
he  has  already  a  large  acquaintance ;  evidently  he  is  popular, 
on  good  terms  with  the  world  and  himself.  What  free  grace 
in  his  bearing!  what  gay  good-humour  in  his  smile!  Powers 
above !  Lady  Wilhelmina  surely  blushes  as  she  returns  his 
bow.  He  has  passed  Lady  Frost  unblighted;  the  Slowes 
evince  emotion,  at  least  the  female  Slowes,  as  he  shoots  by 
them  with  that  sliding  bow.  He  looks  from  side  to  side, 
with  the  rapid  glance  of  an  eye  in  which  light  seems  all  dance 
and  sparkle :  he  sees  the  soliloquist  under  the  meagre  tree ; 
the  pace  quickens,  the  lips  part  half  laughing. 

"Don't  scold,  Vance.  I  am  late,  I  know;  but  I  did  not 
make  allowance  for  interceptions." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  421 

"Body  o'  me,  interceptions!  For  an  absentee  just  arrived 
in  London,  you  seem  to  have  no  lack  of  friends." 

"Friends  made  in  Paris  and  found  again  here  at  every 
corner,  like  pleasant  surprises, —  but  no  friend  so  welcome 
and  dear  as  Frank  Vance." 

"Sensible  of  the  honour,  0  Lionello  the  Magnificent. 
Verily  you  are  bon  prince/  The  Houses  of  Valois  and  of 
Medici  were  always  kind  to  artists.  But  whither  would  you 
lead  me?  Back  into  that  treadmill?  Thank  you,  humbly;  no. 
A  crowd  in  fine  clothes  is  of  all  mobs  the  dullest.  I  can  look 
undismayed  on  the  many -headed  monster,  wild  and  rampant; 
but  when  the  many-headed  monster  buys  its  hats  in  Bond 
Street,  and  has  an  eyeglass  at  each  of  its  inquisitive  eyes,  I 
confess  I  take  fright.  Besides,  it  is  near  seven  o'clock; 
Putney  not  visible,  and  the  flounders  not  fried!" 

"My  cab  is  waiting  yonder;  we  must  walk  to  it:  we  can 
keep  on  the  turf,  and  avoid  the  throng.  But  tell  me  hon- 
estly, Vance,  do  you  really  dislike  to  mix  in  crowds;  you, 
with  your  fame,  dislike  the  eyes  that  turn  back  to  look  again, 
and  the  lips  that  respectfully  murmur,  'Vance  the  Painter'? 
Ah,  I  always  said  you  would  be  a  great  painter, — and  in  five 
short  years  you  have  soared  high." 

"Pooh!"  answered  Vance,  indifferently.  "Nothing  is  pure 
and  unadulterated  in  London  use;  not  cream,  nor  cayenne 
pepper;  least  of  all  Fame, — mixed  up  with  the  most  deleteri- 
ous ingredients.  Fame !  did  you  read  the  '  Times  '  critique 
on  my  pictures  in  the  present  Exhibition?  Fame  indeed! 
Change  the  subject.  Nothing  so  good  as  flounders.  Ho !  is 
that  your  cab?  Superb!  Car  fit  for  the  'Grecian  youth  of 
talents  rare,'  in  Mr.  Enfield's  'Speaker;'  horse  that  seems 
conjured  out  of  the  Elgin  Marbles.  Is  he  quiet?" 

"  Not  very ;  but  trust  to  my  driving.  You  may  well  admire 
the  horse, — present  from  Darrell,  chosen  by  Colonel  Morley." 

When  the  young  men  had  settled  themselves  into  the  vehi- 
cle, Lionel  dismissed  his  groom,  and,  touching  his  horse,  the 
animal  trotted  out  briskly. 

"Frank,"  said  Lionel,  shaking  his  dark  curls  with  a 
petulant  gravity,  "your  cynical  definitions  are  unworthy 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

that    masculine    beard.      You    despise    fame!    what    sheer 
affectation  I 

" '  Pulverem  Olympicum 
Collegisse  juvat ;  metaque  fervidia 
Evitata  rotia  — ' " 

"Take  care,"  cried  Vance;  "we  shall  be  over."  For  Lionel, 
growing  excited,  teased  the  horse  with  his  whip;  and  the 
horse  bolting,  took  the  cab  within  an  inch  of  a  water-cart. 

"  Fame,  fame ! "  cried  Lionel,  unheeding  the  interruption. 
"What  would  I  not  give  to  have  and  to  hold  it  for  an  hour?" 

"Hold  an  eel,  less  slippery;  a  scorpion,  less  stinging  I 
But  — "  added  Vance,  observing  his  companion's  heightened 
colour  —  "  but, "  he  added  seriously,  and  with  an  honest  com- 
punction, "  I  forgot,  you  are  a  soldier,  you  follow  the  career 
of  arms !  Never  heed  what  is  said  on  the  subject  by  a  quer- 
ulous painter!  The  desire  of  fame  may  be  folly  in  civilians: 
in  soldiers  it  is  wisdom.  Twin-born  with  the  martial  sense 
of  honour,  it  cheers  the  march;  it  warms  the  bivouac;  it  gives 
music  to  the  whir  of  the  bullet,  the  roar  of  the  ball;  it  plants 
hope  in  the  thick  of  peril;  knits  rivals  with  the  bond  of 
brothers;  comforts  the  survivor  when  the  brother  falls; 
takes  from  war  its  grim  aspect  of  carnage ;  and  from  homicide 
itself  extracts  lessons  that  strengthen  the  safeguards  to  hu- 
manity, and  perpetuate  life  to  nations.  Eight:  pant  for 
fame ;  you  are  a  soldier !  " 

This  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  high  sentiment  from  Vance, 
which,  as  they  were  very  rare  with  him,  had  the  dramatic 
effect  of  surprise.  Lionel  listened  to  him  with  a  thrilling 
delight.  He  could  not  answer :  he  was  too  moved.  The  ar- 
tist resumed,  as  the  cabriolet  now  cleared  the  Park,  and  rolled 
safely  and  rapidly  along  the  road.  "  I  suppose,  during  the 
five  years  you  have  spent  abroad  completing  your  general 
education,  you  have  made  little  study,  or  none,  of  what  spe- 
cially appertains  to  the  profession  you  have  so  recently 
chosen." 

"You  are  mistaken  there,  my  dear  Vance.  If  a  man's 
heart  be  set  on  a  thing,  he  is  always  studying  it.  The  books 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  423 

I  loved  best,  and  most  pondered  over,  were  such  as,  if  they 
did  not  administer  lessons,  suggested  hints  that  might  turn 
to  lessons  hereafter.  In  social  intercourse,  I  never  was  so 
pleased  as  when  I  could  fasten  myself  to  some  practical  vet- 
eran,—  question  and  cross-examine  him.  One  picks  up  more 
ideas  in  conversation  than  from  books;  at  least  I  do.  Be- 
sides, my  idea  of  a  soldier  who  is  to  succeed  some  day  is  not 
that  of  a  mere  mechanician-at-arms.  See  how  accomplished 
most  great  captains  have  been.  What  observers  of  mankind! 
what  diplomatists !  what  reasoners !  what  men  of  action,  be- 
cause men  to  whom  reflection  had  been  habitual  before  they 
acted !  How  many  stores  of  idea  must  have  gone  to  the  judg- 
ment which  hazards  the  sortie  or  decides  on  the  retreat! " 

"  Gently,  gently !  "  cried  Vance.  "  We  shall  be  into  that 
omnibus!  Give  me  the  whip, — do;  there,  a  little  more  to 
the  left, — so.  Yes;  I  am  glad  to  see  such  enthusiasm  in  your 
profession:  'tis  half  the  battle.  Hazlitt  said  a  capital  thing, 
'The  'prentice  who  does  not  consider  the  Lord  Mayor  in  his 
gilt  coach  the  greatest  man  in  the  world  will  live  to  be 
hanged ! ' : 

"  Pish !  "  said  Lionel,  catching  at  the  whip. 

VANCE  (holding  it  back). — "No.  I  apologize.  I  retract 
the  Lord  Mayor :  comparisons  are  odious.  I  agree  with  you, 
nothing  like  leather.  I  mean  nothing  like  a  really  great  sol- 
dier,—  Hannibal,  and  so  forth.  Cherish  that  conviction,  my 
friend:  meanwhile,  respect  human  life;  there  is  another 
omnibus ! " 

The  danger  past,  the  artist  thought  it  prudent  to  divert  the 
conversation  into  some  channel  less  exciting. 

"Mr.  Darrell,  of  course,  consents  to  your  choice  of  a 
profession?  " 

"  Consents !  approves,  encourages.  Wrote  me  such  a  beau- 
tiful letter !  what  a  comprehensive  intelligence  that  man  has !  " 

"Necessarily;  since  he  agrees  with  you.  Where  is  lie 
now?" 

"  I  have  no  notion :  it  is  some  months  since  I  heard  from 
him.  He  was  then  at  Malta,  on  his  return  from  Asia 
Minor." 


424  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"  So !  you  have  never  seen  him  since  he  bade  you  farewell 
at  his  old  Manor-house?" 

"Never.     He  has  not,  I  believe,  been  in  England." 

"Nor  in  Paris,  where  you  seem  to  have  chiefly  resided." 

"Nor  in  Paris.  Ah,  Vance,  could  I  but  be  of  some  comfort 
to  him.  Now  that  I  am  older,  I  think  I  understand  in  him 
much  that  perplexed  me  as  a  boy  when  we  parted.  Darrell 
is  one  of  those  r^en  who  require  a  home.  Between  the  great 
world  and  solitude,  he  needs  the  intermediate  filling-up  which 
the  life  domestic  alone  supplies :  a  wife  to  realize  the  sweet 
word  helpmate;  children,  with  whose  future  he  could  knit 
his  own  toils  and  his  ancestral  remembrances.  That  interme- 
diate space  annihilated,  the  great  world  and  the  solitude  are 
left,  each  frowning  on  the  other." 

"My  dear  Lionel,  you  must  have  lived  with  very  clever 
people:  you  are  talking  far  above  your  years." 

"Am  I?  True;  I  have  lived,  if  not  with  very  clever  peo- 
ple, with  people  far  above  my  years.  That  is  a  secret 
I  learned  from  Colonel  Morley,  to  whom  I  must  present  you, 
—  the  subtlest  intellect  under  the  quietest  manner.  Once  he 
said  to  me,  'Would  you  throughout  life  be  up  to  the  height  of 
your  century, — always  in  the  prime  of  man's  reason,  without 
crudeness  and  without  decline, — live  habitually  while  young 
with  persons  older,  and  when  old  with  persons  younger,  than 
yourself. ' " 

"Shrewdly  said  indeed.  I  felicitate  you  on  the  evident 
result  of  the  maxim.  And  so  Darrell  has  no  home, — no  wife 
and  no  children?" 

"He  has  long  been  a  widower;  he  lost  his  only  son  in 
boyhood,  and  his  daughter  —  did  you  never  hear?" 

"No,  what?" 

"  Married  so  ill  —  a  runaway  match  —  and  died  many  years 
since,  without  issue." 

"Poor  man!  It  was  these  afflictions,  then,  that  soured  his 
life,  and  made  him  the  hermit  or  the  wanderer?" 

"There,"  said  Lionel,  "I  am  puzzled;  for  I  find  that,  even 
after  his  son's  death  and  his  daughter's  unhappy  marriage 
and  estrangement  from  him,  he  was  still  in  Parliament  and 


425 

in  full  activity  of  career.  But  certainly  lie  did  not  long 
keep  it  up.  It  might  have  been  an  effort  to  which,  strong  as 
he  is,  he  felt  himself  unequal;  or,  might  he  have  known 
some  fresh  disappointment,  some  new  sorrow,  which  the 
world  never  guesses?  What  I  have  said  as  to  his  family 
afflictions  the  world  knows.  But  I  think  he  will  marry 
again.  That  idea  seemed  strong  in  his  own  mind  when  we 
parted;  he  brought  it  out  bluntly,  roughly.  Colonel  Morley 
is  convinced  that  he  will  marry,  if  but  for  the  sake  of  an 
heir." 

VANCE.  —  "And  if  so,  my  poor  Lionel,  you  are  ousted 
of  —  " 

LIONEL  (quickly  interrupting). — "Hush!  Do  not  say,  my 
dear  Vance,  do  not  you  say  —  you!  —  one  of  those  low,  mean 
things  which,  if  said  to  me  even  by  men  for  whom  I  have  no 
esteem,  make  my  ears  tingle  and  my  cheek  blush.  When  I 
think  of  what  Darrell  has  already  done  for  me, — me  who 
have  no  claim  on  him, —  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  must  hate  the 
man  who  insinuates,  "  Fear  lest  your  benefactor  find  a  smile 
at  his  own  hearth,  a  child  of  his  own  blood ;  for  you  may  be 
richer  at  his  death  in  proportion  as  his  life  is  desolate." 

VANCE.  — "  You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon.  Take  care  of  that  milestone :  thank  you.  But  I  sus- 
pect that  at  least  two-thirds  of  those  friendly  hands  that  de- 
tained you  on  the  way  to  me  were  stretched  out  less  to  Lionel 
Haughton,  a  subaltern  in  the  Guards,  than  to  Mr.  DarrelPs 
heir  presumptive." 

LIONEL.  —  "  That  thought  sometimes  galls  me,  but  it  does 
me  good;  for  it  goads  on  my  desire  to  make  myself  some  one 
whom  the  most  worldly  would  not  disdain  to  know  for  his 
own  sake.  Oh  for  active  service!  Oh  for  a  sharp  cam- 
paign! Oh  for  fair  trial  how  far  a  man  in  earnest  can 
grapple  Fortune  to  his  breast  with  his  own  strong  hands! 
You  have  done  so,  Vance ;  you  had  but  your  genius  and  your 
painter's  brush.  I  have  no  genius ;  but  I  have  a  resolve,  and 
resolve  is  perhaps  as  sure  of  its  ends  as  genius.  Genius  and 
Resolve  have  three  grand  elements  in  common, —  Patience, 
Hope,  and  Concentration." 


426  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Vance,  more  and  more  surprised,  looked  hard  at  Lionel 
without  speaking.  Five  years  of  that  critical  age,  from 
seventeen  to  twenty-two,  spent  in  the  great  capital  of 
Europe;  kept  from  its  more  dangerous  vices  partly  by  a 
proud  sense  of  personal  dignity,  partly  by  a  temperament 
which,  regarding  love  as  an  ideal  for  all  tender  and  sublime 
emotion,  recoiled  from  low  profligacy  as  being  to  love  what 
the  Yahoo  of  the  mocking  satirist  was  to  man;  absorbed 
much  by  the  brooding  ambition  that  takes  youth  out  of  the 
frivolous  present  into  the  serious  future,  and  seeking  com- 
panionship, not  with  contemporary  idlers,  but  with  the  high- 
est and  maturest  intellects  that  the  free  commonwealth  of 
good  society  brought  within  his  reach:  five  years  so  spent 
had  developed  a  boy,  nursing  noble  dreams,  into  a  man  fit  for 
noble  action, — retaining  freshest  youth  in  its  enthusiasm, 
its  elevation  of  sentiment,  its  daring,  its  energy,  and  divine 
credulity  in  its  own  unexhausted  resources;  but  borrowing 
from  maturity  compactness  and  solidity  of  idea, — the  link 
between  speculation  and  practice,  the  power  to  impress  on 
others  a  sense  of  the  superiority  which  has  been  self- 
elaborated  by  unconscious  culture. 

"So! "  said  Vance,  after  a  prolonged  pause,  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  have  resolve  or  genius;  but  certainly  if  I  have 
made  my  way  to  some  small  reputation,  patience,  hope,  and 
concentration  of  purpose  must  have  the  credit  of  it;  and  pru- 
dence, too,  which  you  have  forgotten  to  name,  and  certainly 
don't  evince  as  a  charioteer.  I  hope,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
are  not  extravagant?  No  doubt,  eh?  —  why  do  you  laugh?" 

"The  question  is  so  like  you,  Frank, —  thrifty  as  ever." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  have  painted  with  a  calm  mind  if  I 
knew  that  at  my  door  there  was  a  dun  whom  I  could  not  pay? 
Art  needs  serenity;  and  if  an  artist  begin  his  career  with 
as  few  shirts  to  his  back  as  I  had,  he  must  place  economy 
amongst  the  rules  of  perspective." 

Lionel  laughed  again,  and  made  some  comments  on  economy 
which  were  certainly,  if  smart,  rather  flippant,  and  tended 
not  only  to  lower  the  favourable  estimate  of  his  intellectual 
improvement  which  Vance  had  just  formed,  but  seriously  dis- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  427 

quieted  the  kindly  artist.  Vance  knew  the  world,— knew 
the  peculiar  temptations  to  which  a  young  man  in  Lionel's 
position  would  be  exposed,— knew  that  contempt  for  econ- 
omy belongs  to  that  school  of  Peripatetics  which  reserves  its 
last  lessons  for  finished  disciples  in  the  sacred  walks  of  the 
Queen's  Bench. 

However,  that  was  no  auspicious  moment  for  didactic 
warnings. 

"Here  we  are!  "  cried  Lionel, —  "Putney  Bridge." 
They  reached  the  little  inn  by  the  river-side,  and  while 
dinner  was  getting  ready  they  hired  a  boat.     Vance  took  the 
oars. 

VANCE. —  "Not  so  pretty  here  as  by  those  green  quiet  banks 
along  which  we  glided,  at  moonlight,  five  years  ago." 

LIONEL.  —  "  Ah,  no !  And  that  innocent,  charming  child, 
whose  portrait  you  took, —  you  have  never  heard  of  her 
since?  " 

VANCE. —  "Never!  How  should  I?  Have  you?" 
LIONEL. —  "  Only  what  Darrell  repeated  to  me.  His  law- 
yer had  ascertained  that  she  and  her  grandfather  had  gone 
to  America.  Darrell  gently  implied  that,  from  what  he 
learned  of  them,  they  scarcely  merited  the  interest  I  felt  in 
their  fate.  But  we  were  not  deceived,  were  we,  Vance?" 

VANCE. —  "No;     the    little    girl — what    was    her   name? 
Sukey?    Sally?    Sophy,  true  —  Sophy  had  something  about 
her  extremely  prepossessing,  besides  her  pretty  face ;  and,  in 
spite  of  that  horrid  cotton  print,  I  shall  never  forget  it." 
LIONEL. —  "Her  face!    Nor  I.     I  see  it  still  before  me!  " 
VANCE. —  "Her  cotton  print!     I  see  it  still  before  me! 
But  I  must  not  be  ungrateful.     Would  you  believe  it, —  that 
little  portrait,  which  cost  me  three  pounds,  has  made,  I  don't 
say  my  fortune,  but  my  fashion?  " 

LIONEL. —  "  How !  You  had  the  heart  to  sell  it?  " 
VANCE. —  "No;  I  kept  it  as  a  study  for  young  female  heads 
—  'with  variations,'  as  they  say  in  music.  It  was  by  my 
female  heads  that  I  became  the  fashion;  every  order  I  have 
contains  the  condition,  'But  be  sure,  one  of  your  sweet  fe- 
male heads,  Mr.  Vance.'  My  female  heads  are  as  necessary 


428  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

to  my  canvas  as  a  white  horse  to  Wouvermans'.  Well,  that 
child,  who  cost  me  three  pounds,  is  the  original  of  them  all. 
Commencing  as  a  Titania,  she  has  been  in  turns  a 'Psyche,' 
a  'Beatrice-Cenci,'  a  'Minna,'  'A  Portrait  of  a  Nobleman's 
Daughter,'  'Burns's  Mary  in  Heaven,'  'The  Young  Gleaner,' 
and  'Sabrina  Fair,'  in  Milton's  'Comus.'  I  have  led  that 
child  through  all  history,  sacred  and  profane.  I  have 
painted  her  in  all  costumes  (her  own  cotton  print  excepted). 
My  female  heads  are  my  glory;  even  the  'Times' '  critic 
allows  that!  'Mr.  Vance,  there,  is  inimitable!  a  type  of 
childlike  grace  peculiarly  his  own,'  etc.  I'll  lend  you  the 
article." 

LIONEL. —  "And  shall  we  never  again  see  the  original  dar- 
ling Sophy?  You  will  laugh,  Vance,  but  I  have  been  heart- 
proof  against  all  young  ladies.  If  ever  I  marry,  my  wife 
must  have  Sophy's  eyes!  In  America!" 

VANCE. —  "Let  us  hope  by  this  time  happily  married  to  a 
Yankee!  Yankees  marry  girls  in  their  teens,  and  don't  ask 
for  dowries.  Married  to  a  Yankee!  not  a  doubt  of  it!  a 
Yankee  who  chaws,  whittles,  and  keeps  a  'store'!" 

LIONEL. —  "Monster!  Hold  your  tongue.  A  propos  of 
marriage,  why  are  you  still  single?" 

VANCE. —  "Because  I  have  no  wish  to  be  doubled  up! 
Moreover,  man  is  like  a  napkin,  the  more  neatly  the  house- 
wife doubles  him,  the  more  carefully  she  lays  him  on  the 
shelf.  Neither  can  a  man  once  doubled  know  how  often  he 
may  be  doubled.  Not  only  his  wife  folds  him  in  two,  but 
every  child  quarters  him  into  a  new  double,  till  what  was  a 
wide  and  handsome  substance,  large  enough  for  anything  in 
reason,  dwindles  into  a  pitiful  square  that  will  not  cover  one 
platter, —  all  puckers  and  creases,  smaller  and  smaller  with 
every  double,  with  every  double  a  new  crease.  Then,  my 
friend,  comes  the  washing-bill!  and,  besides  all  the  hurts 
one  receives  in  the  mangle,  consider  the  hourly  wear  and 
tear  of  the  linen-press!  In  short,  Shakspeare  vindicates 
the  single  life,  and  depicts  the  double  in  the  famous  line, 
which  is  no  doubt  intended  to  be  allegorical  of  marriage, — 

" '  Doable,  doable,  toil  and  trouble.' 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  429 

Besides,  no  single  man  can  be  fairly  called  poor.  What 
double  man  can  with  certainty  be  called  rich?  A  single  man 
can  lodge  in  a  garret,  and  dine  on  a  herring:  nobody  knows; 
nobody  cares.  Let  him  marry,  and  he  invites  the  world  to 
witness  where  he  lodges,  and  how  he  dines.  The  first  neces- 
sary a  wife  demands  is  the  most  ruinous,  the  most  indefinite 
superfluity;  it  is  Gentility  according  to  what  her  neighbours 
call  genteel.  Gentility  commences  with  the  honeymoon;  it 
is  its  shadow,  and  lengthens  as  the  moon  declines.  When 
the  honey  is  all  gone,  your  bride  says,  'We  can  have  our  tea 
without  sugar  when  quite  alone,  love;  but,  in  case  Gentility 
drop  in,  here's  a  bill  for  silver  sugar-tongs!'  That's  why 
I  'm  single." 

"Economy  again,  Vance." 

"Prudence, —  dignity,"  answered  Vance,  seriously;  and 
sinking  into  a  re  very  that  seemed  gloomy,  he  shot  back  to 
shore. 


CHAPTEE  H. 

MB.  VANCE  explains  how  he  came  to  grind  colours  and  save  half-pence. — 
A  sudden  announcement. 

THE  meal  was  over;  the  table  had  been  spread  by  a  window 
that  looked  upon  the  river.  The  moon  was  up:  the  young 
men  asked  for  no  other  lights ;  conversation  between  them  — 
often  shifting,  often  pausing  —  had  gradually  become  grave, 
as  it  usually  does  with  two  companions  in  youth;  while  yet 
long  vistas  in  the  Future  stretch  before  them  deep  in  shadow, 
and  they  fall  into  confiding  talk  on  what  they  wish,— what 
they  fear;  making  visionary  maps  in  that  limitless  Obscure. 

"There  is  so  much  power  in  faith,"  said  Lionel,  "even 
when  faith  is  applied  but  to  things  human  and  earthly,  that 
let  a  man  be  but  firmly  persuaded  that  he  is  born  to  do,  some 
day,  what  at  the  moment  seems  impossible,  and  it  is  fifty  to 


430  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

one  but  what  he  does  it  before  he  dies.  Surely,  when  you 
were  a  child  at  school,  you  felt  convinced  that  there  was 
something  in  your  fate  distinct  from  that  of  the  other  boys, 
whom  the  master  might  call  quite  as  clever, —  felt  that  faith 
in  yourself  which  made  you  sure  that  you  would  be  one  day 
what  you  are." 

"Well,  I  suppose  so;  but  vague  aspirations  and  self- 
conceits  must  be  bound  together  by  some  practical  necessity 
—  perhaps  a  very  homely  and  a  very  vulgar  one  —  or  they 
scatter  and  evaporate.  One  would  think  that  rich  people  in 
high  life  ought  to  do  more  than  poor  folks  in  humble  life. 
More  pains  are  taken  with  their  education;  they  have  more 
leisure  for  following  the  bent  of  their  genius:  yet  it  is  the 
poor  folks,  often  half  self-educated,  and  with  pinched  bellies, 
that  do  three-fourths  of  the  world's  grand  labour.  Poverty 
is  the  keenest  stimulant;  and  poverty  made  me  say,  not  'I 
will  do,'  but  'I  must.'' 

"You  knew  real  poverty  in  childhood,  Frank?" 

"Real  poverty,  covered  over  with  sham  affluence.  My 
father  was  Genteel  Poverty,  and  my  mother  was  Poor  Gen- 
tility. The  sham  affluence  went  when  my  father  died.  The 
real  poverty  then  came  out  in  all  its  ugliness.  I  was  taken 
from  a  genteel  school,  at  which,  long  afterwards,  I  genteelly 
paid  the  bills ;  and  I  had  to  support  my  mother  somehow  or 
other, — somehow  or  other  I  succeeded.  Alas,  I  fear  not 
genteelly  I  But  before  I  lost  her,  which  I  did  in  a  few  years, 
she  had  some  comforts  which  were  not  appearances;  and  she 
kindly  allowed,  dear  soul,  that  gentility  and  shams  do  not 
go  well  together.  Oh,  beware  of  debt,  Lionello  mio;  and 
never  call  that  economy  meanness  which  is  but  the  safeguard 
from  mean  degradation." 

"I  understand  you  at  last,  Vance;  shake  hands:  I  know 
why  you  are  saving." 

"Habit  now,"  answered  Vance,  repressing  praise  of  him- 
self, as  usual.  "But  I  remember  so  well  when  twopence 
was  a  sum  to  be  respected  that  to  this  day  I  would  rather  put 
it  by  than  spend  it.  All  our  ideas  —  like  orange-plants  — 
spread  out  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  box  which  im- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  431 

prisons  the  roots.  Then  I  had  a  sister."  Vance  paused  a 
moment,  as  if  in  pain,  but  went  on  with  seeming  carelessness, 
leaning  over  the  window-sill,  and  turning  his  face  from  his 
friend.  "I  had  a  sister  older  than  myself,  handsome,  gentle. 
I  was  so  proud  of  her!  Foolish  girl!  my  love  was  not  enough 
for  her.  Foolish  girl!  she  could  not  wait  to  see  what  I 
might  live  to  do  for  her.  She  married  —  oh!  so  genteelly! 
—  a  young  man,  very  well  born,  who  had  wooed  her  before 
my  father  died.  He  had  the  villany  to  remain  constant  when 
she  had  not  a  farthing,  and  he  was  dependent  on  distant  rela- 
tions, and  his  own  domains  in  Parnassus.  The  wretch  was  a 
poet!  So  they  married.  They  spent  their  honeymoon  gen- 
teelly, I  dare  say.  His  relations  cut  him.  Parnassus  paid  no 
rents.  He  went  abroad.  Such  heart-rending  letters  from 
her.  They  were  destitute.  How  I  worked!  how  I  raged! 
But  how  could  I  maintain  her  and  her  husband  too,  mere 
child  that  I  was?  No  matter.  They  are  dead  now,  both; 
all  dead  for  whose  sake  I  first  ground  colours  and  saved  half- 
pence. And  Frank  Vance  is  a  stingy,  selfish  bachelor. 
Never  revive  this  dull  subject  again,  or  I  shall  borrow  a 
crown  from  you  and  cut  you  dead.  Waiter,  ho! — the  bill. 
I  '11  just  go  round  to  the  stables,  and  see  the  horse  put  to." 

As  the  friends  re-entered  London,  Vance  said,  "Set  me 
down  anywhere  in  Piccadilly;  I  will  walk  home.  You, 
I  suppose,  of  course,  are  staying  with  your  mother  in 
Gloucester  Place?" 

"No,"  said  Lionel,  rather  embarrassed;  "Colonel  Morley, 
who  acts  for  me  as  if  he  were  my  guardian,  took  a  lodging 
for  me  in  Chesterfield  Street,  Mayfair.  My  hours,  I  fear, 
would  ill  suit  my  dear  mother.  Only  in  town  two  days; 
and,  thanks  to  Morley,  my  table  is  already  covered  with 
invitations." 

"Yet  you  gave  me  one  day,  generous  friend!  " 

"You  the  second  day,  my  mother  the  first.  But  there  are 
three  balls  before  me  to-night.  Come  home  with  me,  and 
smoke  your  cigar  while  I  dress." 

"No;  but  I  will  at  least  light  my  cigar  in  your  hall,— 
prodigal ! " 


432  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Lionel  now  stopped  at  his  lodging.  The  groom,  who 
served  him  also  as  valet,  was  in  waiting  at  the  door.  "A 
note  for  you,  sir,  from  Colonel  Morley, — just  come."  Lionel 
hastily  opened  it,  and  read, — 

MY  DEAR  HAUGHTON,  —  Mr.  Darrell  has  suddenly  arrived  in 
London.  Keep  yourself  free  all  to-morrow,  when,  no  doubt,  he  will  see 
you.  I  am  hurrying  off  to  him. 

Yours  in  haste,  A.  V.  M. 


CHAPTER  III. 
ONCE  more  Guy  Darrell. 

GUY  DARRELL  was  alone:  a  lofty  room  in  a  large  house 
on  the  first  floor, — his  own  house  in  Carlton  Gardens,  which 
he  had  occupied  during  his  brief  and  brilliant  parliamentary 
career;  since  then,  left  contemptuously  to  the  care  of  a  house 
agent,  to  be  let  by  year  or  by  season,  it  had  known  various 
tenants  of  an  opulence  and  station  suitable  to  its  space  and 
site.  Dinners  and  concerts,  routs  and  balls,  had  assembled 
the  friends  and  jaded  the  spirits  of  many  a  gracious  host 
and  smiling  hostess.  The  tenure  of  one  of  these  temporary 
occupants  had  recently  expired;  and,  ere  the  agent  had 
found  another,  the  long  absent  owner  dropped  down  into  its 
silenced  halls  as  from  the  clouds,  without  other  establish- 
ment than  his  old  servant  Mills  and  the  woman  in  charge  of 
the  house.  There,  as  in  a  caravansery,  the  traveller  took  his 
rest,  stately  and  desolate.  Nothing  so  comfortless  as  one  of 
those  large  London  houses  all  to  one's  self.  In  long  rows 
against  the  walls  stood  the  empty  fauteuils.  Spectral  from 
the  gilded  ceiling  hung  lightless  chandeliers.  The  furniture, 
pompous,  but  worn  by  use  and  faded  by  time,  seemed  memen- 
tos of  departed  revels.  When  you  return  to  your  house  in 
the  country  —  no  matter  how  long  the  absence,  no  matter  how 
decayed  by  neglect  the  friendly  chambers  may  be,  if  it  has 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH   IT?  433 

only  been  deserted  in  the  meanwhile  (not  let  to  new  races, 
who,  by  their  own  shifting  dynasties,  have  supplanted  the 
rightful  lord,  and  half -effaced  his  memorials)  —  the  walls 
may  still  greet  you  forgivingly,  the  character  of  Home  be  still 
there.  You  take  up  again  the  thread  of  associations  which 
had  been  suspended,  not  snapped.  But  it  is  otherwise  with 
a  house  in  cities,  especially  in  our  fast-living  London,  where 
few  houses  descend  from  father  to  son, —  where  the  title- 
deeds  are  rarely  more  than  those  of  a  purchased  lease  for  a 
term  of  years,  after  which  your  property  quits  you.  A  house 
in  London,  which  your  father  never  entered,  in  which  no 
elbow-chair,  no  old-fashioned  work-table,  recall  to  you  the 
kind  smile  of  a  mother;  a  house  that  you  have  left  as  you 
leave  an  inn,  let  to  people  whose  names  you  scarce  know, 
with  as  little  respect  for  your  family  records  as  you  have  for 
theirs, —  when  you  return  after  a  long  interval  of  years  to  a 
house  like  that,  you  stand,  as  stood  Darrell,  a  forlorn  stranger 
under  your  own  roof-tree.  What  cared  he  for  those  who  had 
last  gathered  round  those  hearths  with  their  chill  steely 
grates,  whose  forms  had  reclined  on  those  formal  couches, 
whose  feet  had  worn  away  the  gloss  from  those  costly  car- 
pets? Histories  in  the  lives  of  many  might  be  recorded 
within  those  walls.  "Lovers  there  had  breathed  their  first 
vows ;  bridal  feasts  had  been  held ;  babes  had  crowed  in  the 
arms  of  proud  young  mothers;  politicians  there  had  been 
raised  into  ministers;  ministers  there  had  fallen  back  into 
independent  members ; "  through  those  doors  corpses  had 
been  borne  forth  to  relentless  vaults.  For  these  races  and 
their  records  what  cared  the  owner?  Their  writing  was  not 
on  the  walls.  Sponged  out,  as  from  a  slate,  their  reckonings 
with  Time ;  leaving  dim,  here  and  there,  some  chance  scratch 
of  his  own,  blurred  and  bygone.  Leaning  against  the  mantel- 
piece, Darrell  gazed  round  the  room  with  a  vague  wistful 
look,  as  if  seeking  to  conjure  up  associations  that  might  link 
the  present  hour  to  that  past  life  which  had  slipped  away 
elsewhere;  and  his  profile,  reflected  on  the  mirror  behind, 
pale  and  mournful,  seemed  like  that  ghost  of  himself  which 
his  memory  silently  evoked. 
VOL.  i.  —  28 


434 

The  man  is  but  little  altered  externally  since  we  saw  him 
last,  however  inly  changed  since  he  last  stood  on  those  un- 
welcoming floors;  the  form  still  retained  the  same  vigour  and 
symmetry, —  the  same  unspeakable  dignity  of  mien  and  bear- 
ing; the  same  thoughtful  bend  of  the  proud  neck, — so  dis- 
tinct, in  its  elastic  rebound,  from  the  stoop  of  debility  or  age. 
Thick  as  ever  the  rich  mass  of  dark-brown  hair,  though,  when 
in  the  impatience  of  some  painful  thought  his  hand  swept  the 
loose  curls  from  his  forehead,  the  silver  threads  might  now 
be  seen  shooting  here  and  there, — vanishing 'almost  as  soon 
as  seen.  No,  whatever  the  baptismal  register  may  say  to  the 
contrary,  that  man  is  not  old, —  not  even  elderly;  in  the  deep 
of  that  clear  gray  eye  light  may  be  calm,  but  in  calm  it  is 
vivid ;  not  a  ray,  sent  from  brain  or  from  heart,  is  yet  flicker- 
ing down.  On  the  whole,  however,  there  is  less  composure 
than  of  old  in  his  mien  and  bearing;  less  of  that  resignation 
which  seemed  to  say,  "I  have  done  with  the  substances  of 
life."  Still  there  was  gloom,  but  it  was  more  broken  and 
restless.  Evidently  that  human  breast  was  again  admitting, 
or  forcing  itself  to  court,  human  hopes,  human  objects.  Ee- 
turning  to  the  substances  of  life,  their  movement  was  seen  in 
the  shadows  which,  when  they  wrap  us  round  at  remoter  dis- 
tance, seem  to  lose  their  trouble  as  they  gain  their  width. 
He  broke  from  his  musing  attitude  with  an  abrupt  angry 
movement,  as  if  shaking  off  thoughts  which  displeased  him, 
and  gathering  his  arms  tightly  to  his  breast,  in  a  gesture 
peculiar  to  himself,  walked  to  and  fro  the  room,  murmuring 
inaudibly.  The  door  opened;  he  turned  quickly,  and  with  an 
evident  sense  of  relief,  for  his  face  brightened.  "  Alban,  my 
dear  Alban!" 

"Darrell!  old  friend!  old  school-friend!  dear,  dear  Guy 
Darrell ! "  The  two  Englishmen  stood,  hands  tightly  clasped 
in  each  other,  in  true  English  greeting,  their  eyes  moistening 
with  remembrances  that  carried  them  back  to  boyhood. 

Alban  was  the  first  to  recover  self-possession ;  and,  when 
the  friends  had  seated  themselves,  he  surveyed  Darrell's 
countenance  deliberately,  and  said,  "  So  little  change !  — 
wonderful!  What  is  your  secret?" 


435 

"Suspense  from  life, — hibernating.  But  you  beat  me;  you 
have  been  spending  life,  yet  seem  as  rich  in  it  as  when  we 
parted." 

"No;  I  begin  to  decry  the  present  and  laud  the  past;  to 
read  with  glasses,  to  decide  from  prejudice,  to  recoil  from 
change,  to  find  sense  in  twaddle,  to  know  the  value  of  health 
from  the  fear  to  lose  it;  to  feel  an  interest  in  rheumatism, 
an  awe  of  bronchitis ;  to  tell  anecdotes,  and  to  wear  flannel. 
To  you  in  strict  confidence  I  disclose  the  truth:  I  am  no 
longer  twenty-five.  You  laugh;  this  is  civilized  talk:  does 
it  not  refresh  you  after  the  gibberish  you  must  have  chattered 
in  Asia  Minor?" 

Darrell  might  have  answered  in  the  affirmative  with  truth. 
What  man,  after  long  years  of  solitude,  is  not  refreshed  by 
talk,  however  trivial,  that  recalls  to  him  the  gay  time  of  the 
world  he  remembered  in  his  young  day, —  and  recalls  it  to 
him  on  the  lips  of  a  friend  in  youth !  But  Darrell  said  noth- 
ing; only  he  settled  himself  in  his  chair  with  a  more  cheer- 
ful ease,  and  inclined  his  relaxing  brows  with  a  nod  of 
encouragement  or  assent. 

Colonel  Morley  continued.  "But  when  did  you  arrive? 
whence?  How  long  do  you  stay  here?  What  are  your 
plans?" 

DARRELL. —  "Caesar  could  not  be  more  laconic.  When 
arrived?  this  evening.  Whence?  Ouzelford.  How  long  do 
I  stay?  uncertain.  What  are  my  plans?  let  us  discuss 
them." 

COLONEL  MORLEY.—  "With  all  my  heart.  You  have  plans, 
then?  —  a  good  sign.  Animals  in  hibernation  form  none." 

DARRELL  (putting  aside  the  lights  on  the  table,  so  as  to 
leave  his  face  in  shade,  and  looking  towards  the  floor  as  he 
speaks). —  "For  the  last  five  years  I  have  struggled  hard  to 
renew  interest  in  mankind,  reconnect  myself  with  common 
life  and  its  healthful  objects.  Between  Fawley  and  London 
I  desired  to  form  a  magnetic  medium.  I  took  rather  a  vast 
one, —  nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  known  world.  I  have  visited 
both  Americas,  either  end.  All  Asia  have  I  ransacked,  and 
pierced  as  far  into  Africa  as  traveller  ever  went  in  search  of 


436  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Timbuctoo.  But  I  have  sojourned  also,  at  long  intervals, — 
at  least  they  seemed  long  to  me, —  in  the  gay  capitals  of 
Europe  (Paris  excepted);  mixed,  too,  with  the  gayest;  hired 
palaces,  filled  them  with  guests;  feasted  and  heard  music. 
'Guy  Darrell,'  said  I,  'shake  off  the  rust  of  years:  thou  hadst 
no  youth  while  young, — be  young  now.  A  holiday  may  re- 
store thee  to  wholesome  work,  as  a  holiday  restores  the 
wearied  school-boy. ' " 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "I  comprehend;  the  experiment 
succeeded?  " 

DARRELL. —  "I  don't  know:  not  yet;  but  it  may.  I  am 
here,  and  I  intend  to  stay.  I  would  not  go  to  a  hotel  for  a 
single  day,  lest  my  resolution  should  fail  me.  I  have  thrown 
myself  into  this  castle  of  care  without  even  a  garrison.  I 
hope  to  hold  it.  Help  me  to  man  it.  In  a  word,  and  with- 
out metaphor,  I  am  here  with  the  design  of  re-entering 
London  life." 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "I  am  so  glad.  Hearty  congratula- 
tions! How  rejoiced  all  the  Viponts  will  be!  Another 
'CRISIS'  is  at  hand.  You  have  seen  the  newspapers  regularly, 
of  course:  the  state  of  the  country  interests  you.  You  say 
that  you  come  from  Ouzelford,  the  town  you  once  repre- 
sented. I  guess  you  will  re-enter  Parliament;  you  have  but 
to  say  the  word." 

DARRELL. —  "Parliament!  No.  I  received,  while  abroad, 
so  earnest  a  request  from  my  old  constituents  to  lay  the  foun- 
dation-stone of  a  new  Town-Hall,  in  which  they  are  much 
interested;  and  my  obligations  to  them  have  been  so  great 
that  I  could  not  refuse.  I  wrote  to  fix  the  day  as  soon  as  I 
had  resolved  to  return  to  England,  making  a  condition  that  I 
should  be  spared  the  infliction  of  a  public  dinner,  and  landed 
just  in  time  to  keep  my  appointment;  reached  Ouzelford 
early  this  morning,  went  through  the  ceremony,  made  a  short 
speech,  came  on  at  once  to  London,  not  venturing  to  diverge 
to  Fawley  (which  is  not  very  far  from  Ouzelford),  lest,  once 
there  again,  I  should  not  have  strength  to  leave  it;  and  here 
I  am."  Darrell  paused,  then  repeated,  in  brisk  emphatic 
tone,  "Parliament?  No.  Labour?  No.  Fellow-man,  I  am 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  437 

about  to  confess  to  you:  I  would  snatch  back  some  days  of 
youth,  —  a  wintry  likeness  of  youth,  better  than  none.  Old 
friend,  let  us  amuse  ourselves !  When  I  was  working  hard, 
hard,  hard!  it  was  you  who  would  say:  'Come  forth,  be 
amused,' — you!  happy  butterfly  that  you  were!  Now,  I  say 
to  you,  'Show  me  this  flaunting  town  that  you  know  so 
well;  initiate  me  into  the  joys  of  polite  pleasures,  social 
commune, — 

'  "  Dolce  mihi  furere  est  amico." 

You  have  amusements, — let  me  share  them."1 

"Faith,"  quoth  the  Colonel,  crossing  his  legs,  "you  come 
late  in  the  day !  Amusements  cease  to  amuse  at  last.  I  have 
tried  all,  and  begin  to  be  tired.  I  have  had  my  holiday, 
exhausted  its  sports ;  and  you,  coming  from  books  and  desk 
fresh  into  the  playground,  say,  'Football  and  leapfrog.'  Alas! 
my  poor  friend,  why  did  not  you  come  sooner?  " 

DARBELL. —  "One  word,  one  question.  You  have  made 
EASE  a  philosophy  and  a  system;  no  man  ever  did  so  with 
more  felicitous  grace:  nor,  in  following  pleasure,  have  you 
parted  company  with  conscience  and  shame.  A  fine  gentle- 
man ever,  in  honour  as  in  elegance.  Well,  are  you  satisfied 
with  your  choice  of  life?  Are  you  happy?" 

"Happy!  who  is?    Satisfied,  perhaps." 

"Is  there  any  one  you  envy, —  whose  choice,  other  than 
your  own,  you  would  prefer?  " 

"Certainly." 

"Who?" 

"You." 

"  I !  "  said  Darrell,  opening  his  eyes  with  unaffected  amaze. 
"  I !  envy  me !  prefer  my  choice !  " 

COLONEL  MORLEY  (peevishly). —  "Without  doubt.  You 
have  had  gratified  ambition,  a  great  career.  Envy  you!  who 
would  not?  Your  own  objects  in  life  fulfilled:  you  coveted 
distinction, — you  won  it;  fortune, — your  wealth  is  immense; 
the  restoration  of  your  name  and  lineage  from  obscurity  and 
humiliation, —  are  not  name  and  lineage  again  written  in  the 
Libro  d'oro  ?  What  king  would  not  hail  you  as  his  counsellor? 


438  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

What  senate  not  open  its  ranks  to  admit  you  as  a  chief?  What 
house,  though  the  haughtiest  in  the  land,  would  not  accept 
your  alliance?  And  withal,  you  stand  before  me  stalwart 
and  unbowed,  young  blood  still  in  your  veins.  Ungrateful 
man,  who  would  not  change  lots  with  Guy  Darrell?  Fame, 
fortune,  health,  and,  not  to  flatter  you,  a  form  and  presence 
that  would  be  remarked,  though  you  stood  in  that  black  frock 
by  the  side  of  a  monarch  in  his  coronation  robes." 

DARRELL. —  "You  have  turned  my  question  against  myself 
with  a  kindliness  of  intention  that  makes  me  forgive  your 
belief  in  my  vanity.  Pass  on, —  or  rather  pass  back;  you  say 
you  have  tried  all  in  life  that  distracts  or  sweetens.  Not  so, 
lone  bachelor;  you  have  not  tried  wedlock.  Has  not  that 
been  your  mistake?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "Answer  for  yourself.  You  have 
tried  |it."  The  words  were  scarce  out  of  his  mouth  ere  he 
repented  the  retort;  for  Darrell  started  as  if  stung  to  the 
quick;  and  his  brow,  before  serene,  his  lip,  before  playful, 
grew,  the  one  darkly  troubled,  the  other  tightly  compressed. 
"Pardon  me,"  faltered  out  the  friend. 

DARRELL. —  "Oh,  yes!  I  brought  it  on  myself.  What  stuff 
we  have  been  talking!  Tell  me  the  news,  not  political, — 
any  other.  But  first,  your  report  of  young  Haughton.  Cor- 
dial thanks  for  all  your  kindness  to  him.  You  write  me  word 
that  he  is  much  improved, —  most  likeable;  you  add,  that  at 
Paris  he  became  the  rage,  that  in  London  you  are  sure  he 
will  be  extremely  popular.  Be  it  so,  if  for  his  own  sake. 
Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  for  the  expectations  which 
I  come  here  to  disperse?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "Much  for  himself,  I  am  certain;  a 
little,  perhaps,  because  —  whatever  he  thinks,  and  I  say 
to  the  contrary  —  people  seeing  no  other  heir  to  your 
property  —  " 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  Darrell,  quickly.  "But  he 
does  not  nurse  those  expectations?  he  will  not  be 
disappointed?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "Verily  I  believe  that,  apart  from 
his  love  for  you  and  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  that  would  recoil 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  439 

from  planting  hopes  of  wealth  in  the  graves  of  benefactors, 
Lionel  Haughton  would  prefer  carving  his  own  fortunes  to  all 
the  ingots  hewed  out  of  California  by  another's  hand  and 
bequeathed  by  another's  will." 

DAKRELL. —  "I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  and  to  trust  you." 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "I  gather  from  what  you  say  that  you 
are  here  with  the  intention  to  —  to  —  " 

"Marry  again,"  said  Darrell,  firmly.     "Right.     I  am." 

"I  always  felt  sure  you  would  marry  again.  Is  the  lady 
here  too?" 

"What  lady?" 

"The  lady  you  have  chosen." 

"  Tush !  I  have  chosen  none.  I  come  here  to  choose ;  and 
in  this  I  ask  advice  from  your  experience.  I  would  marry 
again!  I!  at  my  age!  Eidiculous!  But  so  it  is.  You 
know  all  the  mothers  and  marriageable  daughters  that  Lon- 
don —  arida  nutrix  —  rears  for  nuptial  altars :  where,  amongst 
them,  shall  I,  Guy  Darrell,  the  man  whom  you  think  so 
enviable,  find  the  safe  helpmate,  whose  love  he  may  reward 
with  munificent  jointure,  to  whose  child  he  may  bequeath  the 
name  that  has  now  no  successor,  and  the  wealth  he  has  no 
heart  to  spend?" 

Colonel  Morley  —  who,  as  we  know,  is  by  habit  a  match- 
maker, and  likes  the  vocation  —  assumes  a  placid  but  cogita- 
tive mien,  rubs  his  brow  gently,  and  says  in  his  softest, 
best-bred  accents,  "You  would  not  marry  a  mere  girl?  some 
one  of  suitable  age.  I  know  several  most  superior  young 
women  on  the  other  side  of  thirty,  Wilhelmina  Prymme,  for 
instance,  or  Janet  —  " 

DARRELL. —  " Old  maids.     No!  decidedly  no!  " 

COLONEL  MORLEY  (suspiciously). —  "But  you  would  not 
risk  the  peace  of  your  old  age  with  a  girl  of  eighteen,  or  else 
I  do  know  a  very  accomplished,  well-brought-up  girl ;  just 
eighteen,  who  —  " 

DARRELL. —  "Ke-enter  life  by  the  side  of  Eighteen  I  am  I  a 
madman?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY.— "Neither  old  maids  nor  young  maids; 
the  choice  becomes  narrowed.  You  would  prefer  a  widow. 


440  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Hal  I  have  thought  of  one;  a  prize,  indeed,  could  you  but 
win  her,  the  widow  of  —  " 

DARRELL. — "Ephesus!  —  Bah!  suggest  no  widow  to  me. 
A  widow,  with  her  affections  buried  in  the  grave ! " 

MORLEY,  —  "  Not  necessarily.     And  in  this  case  —  " 

DARRELL  (interrupting,  and  with  warmth).  —  "In  every 
case  I  tell  you :  no  widow  shall  doff  her  weeds  for  me.  Did 
she  love  the  first  man?  Fickle  is  the  woman  who  can  love 
twice.  Did  she  not  love  him?  Why  did  she  marry  him? 
Perhaps  she  sold  herself  to  a  rent-roll?  Shall  she  sell  herself 
again  to  me  for  a  jointure?  Heaven  forbid!  Talk  not  of 
widows.  No  dainty  so  flavourless  as  a  heart  warmed  up  again." 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  —  "  Neither  maids,  be  they  old  or  young, 
nor  widows.  Possibly  you  want  an  angel.  London  is  not 
the  place  for  angels." 

DARRELL.  — "I  grant  that  the  choice  seems  involved  in  per- 
plexity. How  can  it  be  otherwise  if  one's  self  is  perplexed? 
And  yet,  Alban,  I  am  serious;  and  I  do  not  presume  to  be  so 
exacting  as  my  words  have  implied.  I  ask  not  fortune,  nor 
rank  beyond  gentle  blood,  nor  youth  nor  beauty  nor  accomplish- 
ments nor  fashion,  but  I  do  ask  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only." 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  —  "  What  is  that?  you  have  left  nothing 
worth  the  having  to  ask  for." 

DARRELL. —  "Nothing!  I  have  left  all!  I  ask  some  one 
whom  I  can  love;  love  better  than  all  the  world,  —not  the 
mariage  de  convenance,  not  the  mariage  de  raison,  but  the 
mariage  d' amour.  All  other  marriage,  with  vows  of  love  so 
solemn,  with  intimacy  of  commune  so  close,  —  all  other  mar- 
riage, in  my  eyes,  is  an  acted  falsehood,  a  varnished  sin. 
Ah,  if  I  had  thought  so  always!  But  away  regret  and  repent- 
ance! The  future  alone  is  now  before  me!  Alban  Morley! 
I  would  sign  away  all  I  have  in  the  world  (save  the  old 
house  at  Fawley),  ay,  and  after  signing,  cut  off  to  boot  this 
right  hand,  could  I  but  once  fall  in  love;  love,  and  be  loved 
again,  as  any  two  of  Heaven's  simplest  human  creatures  may 
love  each  other  while  life  is  fresh!  Strange!  strange!  look 
out  into  the  world ;  mark  the  man  of  our  years  who  shall  be 
most  courted,  most  adulated,  or  admired.  Give  him  all 


WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT?  441 

the  attributes  of  power,  wealth,  royalty,  genius,  fame.  See 
all  the  younger  generation  bow  before  him  with  hope  or  awe: 
his  word  can  make  their  fortune;  at  his  smile  a  reputation 
dawns.  Well;  now  let  that  mail  say  to  the  young,  'Room 
amongst  yourselves:  all  that  wins  me  this  homage  I  would 
lay  at  the  feet  of  Beauty.  I  enter  the  lists  of  love,'  and 
straightway  his  power  vanishes,  the  poorest  booby  of  twenty- 
four  can  jostle  him  aside;  before,  the  object  of  reverence,  he  is 
now  the  butt  of  ridicule.  The  instant  he  asks  right  to  win  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  a  boy  whom  in  all  else  he  could  rule  as  a 
lackey  cries,  '  Off,  Graybeard,  that  realm  at  least  is  mine ! '  " 

COLONEL  MOKLEY.  —  "  This  were  but  eloquent  extravagance, 
even  if  your  beard  were  gray.  Men  older  than  you,  and  with 
half  your  pretensions,  even  of  outward  form,  have  carried 
away  hearts  from  boys  like  Adonis.  Only  choose  well: 
that 's  the  difficulty ;  if  it  was  not  difficult,  who  would  be  a 
bachelor?" 

DABRELL.  —  "  Guide  my  choice.     Pilot  me  to  the  haven.  " 

COLONEL  MOBLEY.  —  "  Accepted !  But  you  must  remount  a 
suitable  establishment;  reopen  your  way  to  the  great  world, 
and  penetrate  those  sacred  recesses  where  awaiting  spins- 
ters weave  the  fatal  web.  Leave  all  to  me.  Let  Mills  (I  see 
you  have  him  still)  call  on  me  to-morrow  about  your  menage. 
You  will  give  dinners,  of  course?" 

DABBELL.  — "Oh,  of  course,  must  I  dine  at  them  myself?" 

Morley  laughed  softly,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"  So  soon!  "  cried  Darrell.  "  If  I  fatigue  you  already,  what 
chance  shall  I  have  with  new  friends?" 

"So  soon!  it  is  past  eleven.  And  it  is  you  who  must  be 
fatigued." 

"No  such  good  luck;  were  I  fatigued,  I  might  hope  to 
sleep.  I  will  walk  back  with  you.  Leave  me  not  alone  in 
this  room,  — alone  in  the  jaws  of  a  fishj  swallowed  up  by  a 
creature  whose  blood  is  cold." 

"You  have  something  still  to  say  to  me,"  said  Alban,  when 
they  were  in  the  open  air:  "I  detect  it  in  your  manner;  what 
is  it?" 


442  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

"  I  know  not.  But  you  have  told  me  no  news ;  these  streets 
are  grown  strange  to  me.  Who  live  now  in  yonder  houses? 
once  the  dwellers  were  my  friends." 

" In  that  house,  —  oh,  new  people!  I  forget  their  names,  — 
but  rich ;  in  a  year  or  two,  with  luck,  they  may  be  exclusives, 
and  forget  my  name.  In  the  other  house,  Carr  Vipont 
still." 

"Vipont;  those  dear  Viponts!  what  of  them  all?  Crawl 
they,  sting  they,  bask  they  in  the  sun,  or  are  they  in  anxious 
process  of  a  change  of  skin?" 

"Hush!  my  dear  friend:  no  satire  on  your  own  connec- 
tions; nothing  so  injudicious.  I  am  a  Vipont,  too,  and  all 
for  the  family  maxim,  *  Vipont  with  Vipont,  and  come  what 
may!'" 

"  I  stand  rebuked.  But  I  am  no  Vipont.  1  married,  it  is 
true,  into  their  house,  and  they  married,  ages  ago,  into  mine ; 
but  no  drop  in  the  blood  of  time-servers  flows  through  the 
veins  of  the  last  childless  Darrell.  Pardon.  I  allow  the 
merit  of  the  Vipont  race;  no  family  more  excites  my 
respectful  interest.  What  of  their  births,  deaths,  and 
marriages?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  —  "As  to  the  births,  Carr  has  just  wel- 
comed the  birth  of  a  grandson,  the  first-born  of  his  eldest 
son  (who  married  last  year  a  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 
Halifax), — a  promising  young  man,  a  Lord  in  the  Admir- 
alty. Carr  has  a  second  son  in  the Hussars ;  has  just 

purchased  his  step:  the  other  boys  are  still  at  school.  He 
has  three  daughters  too,  fine  girls,  admirably  brought  upj 
indeed,  now  I  think  of  it,  the  eldest,  Honoria,  might  suit 
you,  highly  accomplished;  well  read;  interests  herself  in 
politics;  a  great  admirer  of  intellect;  of  a  very  serious  turn 
of  mind  too." 

DARRELL. — "A  female  politician  with  a  serious  turn  of 
mind, — a  farthing  rushlight  in  a  London  fog!  Hasten  on 
to  subjects  less  gloomy.  Whose  funeral  achievement  is  that 
yonder?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY.  — "  The  late  Lord  Niton's,  father  to 
Lady  Montfort." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  443 

DARKELL. —  "Lady  Montfort!  Her  father  was  a  Lyndsay, 
and  died  before  the  Flood.  A  deluge,  at  least,  has  gone  over 
me  and  my  world  since  I  looked  on  the  face  of  his  widow." 

COLONEL  MOBLEY. —  "I  speak  of  the  present  Lord 
Montfort's  wife,  — the  Earl's.  You  of  the  poor  Marquess's, 
the  last  Marquess ;  the  marquisate  is  extinct.  Surely,  what- 
ever your  wanderings,  you  must  have  heard  of  the  death  of 
the  last  Marquess  of  Montfort?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  of  that,"  answered  Darrell,  in  a  somewhat 
husky  and  muttered  voice.  "  So  he  is  dead,  the  young  man ! 
What  killed  him?  " 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "A  violent  attack  of  croup, —  quite 
sudden.  He  was  staying  at  Carr's  at  the  time.  I  suspect 
that  Carr  made  him  talk!  a  thing  he  was  not  accustomed 
to  do.  Deranged  his  system  altogether.  But  don't  let  us 
revive  painful  subjects." 

DABBELL. —  "Was  she  with  him  at  the  time?" 

COLONEL  MOBLEY. —  "Lady  Montfort?  No;  they  were 
very  seldom  together." 

DABBELL. —  "  She  is  not  married  again  yet?  " 

COLONEL  MOBLEY. —  "No,  but  still  young  and  so  beautiful: 
she  will  have  many  offers.  I  know  those  who  are  waiting  to 
propose.  Montfort  has  been  only  dead  eighteen  months; 
died  just  before  young  Carr's  marriage.  His  widow  lives,  in 
complete  seclusion,  at  her  jointure-house  near  Twickenham. 
She  has  only  seen  even  me  once  since  her  loss." 

DABBELL. —  "  When  was  that?  " 

MOBLEY. —  "About  six  or  seven  months  ago;  she  asked 
after  you  with  much  interest." 

DABBELL. —  "  After  me !  " 

COLONEL  MOBLEY. —  "To  be  sure.  Don't  I  remember  how 
constantly  she  and  her  mother  were  at  your  house?  Is  it 
strange  that  she  should  ask  after  you?  You  ought  to  know 
her  better,—  the  most  affectionate,  grateful  character." 

DABBELL. —  "  I  dare  say.  But  at  the  time  you  refer  to,  I 
was  too  occupied  to  acquire  much  accurate  knowledge  of  a 
young  lady's  character.  I  should  have  known  her  mother's 
character  better,  yet  I  mistook  even  that." 


444  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "Mrs.  Lyndsay's  character  you  might 
well  mistake, —  charming  but  artificial:  Lady  Montfort  is 
natural.  Indeed,  if  you  had  not  that  illiberal  prejudice 
against  widows,  she  was  the  very  person  I  was  about  to 
suggest  to  you." 

DARRELL. —  "A  fashionable  beauty!  and  young  enough  to 
be  my  daughter.  Such  is  human  friendship!  So  the  mar- 
quisate  is  extinct,  and  Sir  James  Vipont,  whom  I  remember 
in  the  House  of  Commons  —  respectable  man,  great  authority 
on  cattle,  timid,  and  always  saying,  'Did  you  read  that  article 
in  to-day's  paper?'  —  has  the  estates  and  the  earldom?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "Yes.  There  was  some  fear  of  a  dis- 
puted succession,  but  Sir  James  made  his  claim  very  clear. 
Between  you  and  me,  the  change  has  been  a  serious  affliction 
to  the  Viponts.  The  late  lord  was  not  wise,  but  on  state 
occasions  he  looked  his  part, —  tres  grand  seigneur, —  and 
Carr  managed  the  family  influence  with  admirable  tact.  The 
present  lord  has  the  habits  of  a  yeoman;  his  wife  shares  his 
tastes.  He  has  taken  the  management  not  only  of  the  prop- 
erty, but  of  its  influence,  out  of  Carr's  hands,  and  will  make 
a  sad  mess  of  it,  for  he  is  an  impracticable,  obsolete  politi- 
cian. He  will  never  keep  the  family  together,  impossible, — 
a  sad  thing.  I  remember  how  our  last  muster,  five  years  ago 

next  Christmas,  struck  terror  into  Lord 's  Cabinet;  the 

mere  report  of  it  in  the  newspapers  set  all  people  talking 
and  thinking.  The  result  was  that,  two  weeks  after,  proper 
overtures  were  made  to  Carr :  he  consented  to  assist  the  min- 
isters; and  the  country  was  saved!  Now,  thanks  to  this 
stupid  new  earl,  in  eighteen  months  we  have  lost  ground 
which  it  took  at  least  a  century  and  a  half  to  gain.  Our 
votes  are  divided;  our  influence  frittered  away;  Montfort 
House  is  shut  up ;  and  Carr,  grown  quite  thin,  says  that  in  the 
coming  'CRISIS'  a  Cabinet  will  not  only  be  formed,  but  will 
also  last  —  last  time  enough  for  irreparable  mischief  — 
without  a  single  Vipont  in  office." 

Thus  Colonel  Morley  continued  in  mournful  strain,  Darrell 
silent  by  his  side,  till  the  Colonel  reached  his  own  door. 
There,  while  applying  his  latch-key  to  the  lock,  Alban's 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  445 

mind  returned  from  the  perils  that  threatened  the  House  of 
Vipont  and  the  Star  of  Brunswick  to  the  petty  claims  of  pri- 
vate friendship.  But  even  these  last  were  now  blended  with 
those  grander  interests,  due  care  for  which  every  true  patriot 
of  the  House  of  Vipont  imbibed  with  his  mother's  milk. 

"  Your  appearance  in  town,  my  dear  Darrell,  is  most  oppor- 
tune. It  will  be  an  object  with  the  whole  family  to  make  the 
most  of  you  at  this  coming  'CRISIS;'  I  say  coming,  for  I  be- 
lieve it  must  come.  Your  name  is  still  freshly  remembered; 
your  position  greater  for  having  been  out  of  all  the  scrapes  of 
the  party  the  last  sixteen  or  seventeen  years:  your  house 
should  be  the  nucleus  of  new  combinations.  Don't  forget  to 
send  Mills  to  me;  I  will  engage  your  chef  and  your  house- 
steward  to-morrow.  I  know  just  the  men  to  suit  you.  Your 
intention  to  marry  too,  just  at  this  moment,  is  most  season- 
able; it  will  increase  the  family  interest.  I  may  give  out 
that  you  intend  to  marry?" 

"Oh,  certainly:  cry  it  at  Charing  Cross." 

"  A  club-room  will  do  as  well.  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons ; 
but  people  will  talk  about  money  whenever  they  talk  about 
marriage.  I  should  not  like  to  exaggerate  your  fortune:  I 
know  it  must  be  very  large,  and  all  at  your  own  disposal, 
eh?" 

"Every  shilling." 

"  You  must  have  saved  a  great  deal  since  you  retired  into 
private  life?  " 

"  Take  that  for  granted.  Dick  Fairthorn  receives  my  rents, 
and  looks  to  my  various  investments ;  and  I  accept  him  as  an 
indisputable  authority  when  I  say  that,  what  with  the  rental 
of  lands  I  purchased  in  my  poor  boy's  lifetime  and  the  inter- 
est on  my  much  more  lucrative  moneyed  capital,  you  may 
safely  whisper  to  all  ladies  likely  to  feel  interest  in  that  diffu- 
sion of  knowledge,  '  Thirty-five  thousand  a  year,  and  an  old 
fool.'" 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  say  an  old  fool,  for  I  am  the  same 
age  as  yourself;  and  if  I  had  thirty-five  thousand  pounds  a 
year,  I  would  marry  too." 

"You  would!    Old  fool!  "  said  Darrell,  turning  away. 


446  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

REVEALING  glimpses  of  Guy  Barrel! 's  past  in  his  envied  prime.    Dig  but 
deep  enough,  and  under  all  earth  runs  water,  under  all  life  runs  grief. 

ALOXE  in  the  streets,  the  vivacity  which  had  characterized 
Darrell's  countenance  as  well  as  his  words,  while  with  his 
old  school  friend,  changed  as  suddenly  and  as  completely  into 
pensive  abstracted  gloom  as  if  he  had  been  acting  a  part,  and 
with  the  exit  the  acting  ceased.  Disinclined  to  return  yet  to 
the  solitude  of  his  home,  he  walked  on  at  first  mechanically, 
in  the  restless  desire  of  movement,  he  cared  not  whither. 
But  as,  thus  chance-led,  he  found  himself  in  the  centre  of 
that  long  straight  thoroughfare  which  connects  what  once  were 
the  separate  villages  of  Tyburn  and  Holborn,  something  in 
the  desultory  links  of  revery  suggested  an  object  to  his  devi- 
ous feet.  He  had  but  to  follow  that  street  to  his  right  hand, 
to  gain  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  sight  of  the  humble  dwelling- 
house  in  which  he  had  first  settled  down,  after  his  early  mar- 
riage, to  the  arid  labours  of  the  bar.  He  would  go,  now  that, 
wealthy  and  renowned,  he  was  revisiting  the  long-deserted 
focus  of  English  energies,  and  contemplate  the  obscure  abode 
in  which  his  powers  had  been  first  concentrated  on  the  pur- 
suit of  renown  and  wealth.  Who  among  my  readers  that  may 
have  risen  on  the  glittering  steep  ("Ah,  who  can  tell  how 
hard  it  is  to  climb ! "  *)  has  not  been  similarly  attracted 
towards  the  roof  at  the  craggy  foot  of  the  ascent,  under  which 
golden  dreams  refreshed  his  straining  sinews?  Somewhat 
quickening  his  steps,  now  that  a  bourne  was  assigned  to  them, 
the  man  growing  old  in  years,  but,  unhappily  for  himself, 
too  tenacious  of  youth  in  its  grand  discontent  and  keen  sus- 
ceptibilities to  pain,  strode  noiselessly  on,  under  the  gas- 

1  Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar  ? 

BEATTIE. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  447 

lights,  under  the  stars;  gaslights  primly  marshalled  at 
equidistance ;  stars  that  seem  to  the  naked  eye  dotted  over 
space  without  symmetry  or  method:  man's  order,  near  and 
finite,  is  so  distinct;  the  Maker's  order  remote,  infinite,  is  so 
beyond  man's  comprehension  even  of  what  is  order! 

Darrell  paused  hesitating.  He  had  now  gained  a  spot  in 
which  improvement  had  altered  the  landmarks.  The  superb 
broad  thoroughfare  continued  where  once  it  had  vanished 
abrupt  in  a  labyrinth  of  courts  and  alleys.  But  the  way  was 
not  hard  to  find.  He  turned  a  little  towards  the  left,  recog- 
nizing, with  admiring  interest,  in  the  gay,  white,  would-be 
Grecian  edifice,  with  its  French  grille,  bronzed,  gilded,  the 
transformed  Museum,  in  the  still  libraries  of  which  he  had 
sometimes  snatched  a  brief  and  ghostly  respite  from  books 
of  law.  Onwards  yet  through  lifeless  Bloomsbury,  not  so 
far  towards  the  last  bounds  of  Atlas  as  the  desolation  of  Pod- 
den  Place,  but  the  solitude  deepening  as  he  passed.  There 
it  is,  a  quiet  street  indeed!  not  a  soul  on  its  gloomy  pave- 
ments, not  even  a  policeman's  soul.  Nought  stirring  save 
a  stealthy,  profligate,  good-for-nothing  cat,  flitting  fine 
through  yon  area  bars.  Down  that  street  had  he  come,  I 
trow,  with  a  livelier,  quicker  step  the  day  when,  by  the 
strange  good-luck  which  had  uniformly  attended  his  worldly 
career  of  honours,  he  had  been  suddenly  called  upon  to  sup- 
ply the  place  of  an  absent  senior,  and  in  almost  his  earliest 
brief  the  Courts  of  Westminster  had  recognized  a  master, — 
come,  I  trow,  with  a  livelier  step,  knocked  at  that  very  door 
whereat  he  is  halting  now;  entered  the  room  where  the  young 
wife  sat,  and  at  sight  of  her  querulous  peevish  face,  and  at 
sound  of  her  unsympathizing  languid  voice,  fled  into  his 
cupboard-like  back  parlour,  and  muttered  "Courage!  cour- 
age !  "  to  endure  the  home  he  had  entered  longing  for  a  voice 
which  should  invite  and  respond  to  a  cry  of  joy. 

How  closed  up,  dumb,  and  blind  looked  the  small  mean 
house,  with  its  small  mean  door,  its  small  mean  rayless  win- 
dows! Yet  a  FAME  had  been  born  there!  Who  are  the  resi- 
dents now?  Buried  in  slumber,  have  they  any  "golden 
dreams  "?  Works  therein  any  struggling  brain,  to  which  the 


448  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT? 

prosperous  man  might  whisper  "Courage!"  or  beats,  there, 
any  troubled  heart  to  which  faithful  woman  should  murmur 
"Joy"?  Who  knows?  London  is  a  wondrous  poem,  but  each 
page  of  it  is  written  in  a  different  language, —  no  lexicon  yet 
composed  for  any. 

Back  through  the  street,  under  the  gaslights,  under  the 
stars,  went  Guy  Darrell,  more  slow  and  more  thoughtful. 
Did  the  comparison  between  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 
the  mean  home  just  revisited,  the  stately  home  to  which  he 
would  return,  suggest  thoughts  of  natural  pride?  It  would 
not  seem  so;  no  pride  in  those  close-shut  lips,  in  that 
melancholy  stoop. 

He  came  into  a  quiet  square, —  still'Bloomsbury, —  and  right 
before  him  was  a  large  respectable  mansion,  almost  as  large 
as  that  one  in  courtlier  quarters  to  which  he  loiteringly 
delayed  the  lone  return.  There,  too,  had  been  for  a  time  the 
dwelling  which  was  called  his  home;  there,  when  gold  was 
rolling  in  like  a  tide,  distinction  won,  position  assured; 
there,  not  yet  in  Parliament,  but  foremost  at  the  bar, —  al- 
ready pressed  by  constituencies,  already  wooed  by  ministers; 
there,  still  young  —  0  luckiest  of  lawyers !  —  there  had  he 
moved  his  household  gods.  Fit  residence  for  a  Prince  of  the 
Gown!  Is  it  when  living  there  that  you  would  envy  the  pros- 
perous man?  Yes,  the  moment  his  step  quits  that  door;  but 
envy  him  when  he  enters  its  threshold?  —  nay,  envy  rather 
that  roofless  Savoyard  who  has  crept  under  yonder  portico, 
asleep  with  his  ragged  arm  round  the  cage  of  his  stupid 
dormice !  There,  in  that  great  barren  drawing-room,  sits  a 

"  Pale  and  elegant  Aspasia." 

Well,  but  the  wife's  face  is  not  querulous  now.  Look 
again,  —  anxious,  fearful,  secret,  sly.  Oh !  that  fine  lady,  a 
Vipont  Crooke,  is  not  contented  to  be  wife  to  the  wealthy, 
great  Mr.  Darrell.  What  wants  she?  that  he  should  be 
spouse  to  the  fashionable  fine  Mrs.  Darrell?  Pride  in  him! 
not  a  jot  of  it;  such  pride  were  unchristian.  Were  he  proud 
of  her,  as  a  Christian  husband  ought  to  be  of  so  elegant  a 
wife,  would  he  still  be  in  Bloomsbury?  Envy  him  !  the  high 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  449 

gentleman,  so  true  to  his  blood,  all  galled  and  blistered  by 
the  moral  vulgarities  of  a  tuft-hunting,  toad-eating  mimic  of 
the  Lady  Selinas.  Envy  him!  Well,  why  not?  All  women 
have  their  foibles.  Wise  husbands  must  bear  and  forbear. 
Is  that  all?  wherefore,  then,  is  her  aspect  so  furtive,  where- 
fore on  his  a  wild,  vigilant  sternness?  Tut,  what  so  brings 
into  coveted  fashion  a  fair  lady  exiled  to  Bloomsbury  as  the 
marked  adoration  of  a  lord,  not  her  own,  who  gives  law  to  St. 
James's!  Untempted  by  passion,  cold  as  ice  to  affection;  if 
thawed  to  the  gush  of  a  sentiment  secretly  preferring  the 
husband  she  chose,  wooed,  and  won  to  idlers  less  gifted  even 
in  outward  attractions, —  all  this,  yet  seeking,  coquetting  for, 
the  bclat  of  dishonour!  To  elope?  Oh,  no,  too  wary  for  that, 
but  to  be  gazed  at  and  talked  of  as  the  fair  Mrs.  Darrell,  to 
whom  the  Lovelace  of  London  was  so  fondly  devoted.  Walk 
in,  haughty  son  of  the  Dare-all.  Barest  thou  ask  who  has 
just  left  thy  house?  Barest  thou  ask  what  and  whence  is  the 
note  that  sly  hand  has  secreted?  Barest  thou?  —  perhaps  yes : 
what  then?  canst  thou  lock  up  thy  wife?  canst  thou  poniard 
the  Lovelace?  Lock  up  the  air!  poniard  all  whose  light  word 
in  St.  James's  can  bring  into  fashion  the  matron  of  Blooms- 
bury!  Go,  lawyer,  go,  study  briefs,  and  be  parchment. 

Agonies,  agonies,  shot  again  through  Guy  Barrell's  breast 
as  he  looked  on  that  large,  most  respectable  house,  and  re- 
membered his  hourly  campaign  against  disgrace !  He  has  tri- 
umphed. Beath  fights  for  him :  on  the  very  brink  of  the  last 
scandal,  a  cold,  caught  at  some  Vipont's  ball,  became  fever; 
and  so  from  that  door  the  Black  Horses  bore  away  the 
Bloomsbury  Bame,  ere  she  was  yet  —  the  fashion !  Happy  in 
grief  the  widower  who  may,  with  confiding  hand,  ransack  the 
lost  wife's  harmless  desk,  sure  that  no  thought  concealed 
from  him  in  life  will  rise  accusing  from  the  treasured  papers. 
But  that  pale  proud  mourner,  hurrying  the  eye  over  sweet- 
scented  billets;  compelled,  in  very  justice  to  the  dead,  to  con- 
vince himself  that  the  mother  of  his  children  was  corrupt  only 
at  heart,— that  the  Black  Horses  had  come  to  the  door  in 
time,—  and,  wretchedly  consoled  by  that  niggardly  convic- 
tion, flinging  into  the  flames  the  last  flimsy  tatters  on  which 

VOL.  I.  —  29 

\ 


450  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

his  honour  (rock-like  in  his  own  keeping)  had  been  fluttering 
to  and  fro  in  the  charge  of  a  vain  treacherous  fool,  —  envy 
you  that  mourner?  No!  not  even  in  his  release.  Memory  is 
not  nailed  down  in  the  velvet  coffin;  and  to  great  loyal  na- 
tures less  bitter  is  the  memory  of  the  lost  when  hallowed  by 
tender  sadness  than  when  coupled  with  scorn  and  shame. 

The  wife  is  dead.  Dead,  too,  long  years  ago,  the  Lothario! 
The  world  has  forgotten  them;  they  fade  out  of  this  very 
record  when  ye  turn  the  page ;  no  influence,  no  bearing  have 
they  on  such  future  events  as  may  mark  what  yet  rests  of  life 
to  Guy  Darrell.  But  as  he  there  stands  and  gazes  into  space, 
the  two  forms  are  before  his  eye  as  distinct  as  if  living  still. 
Slowly,  slowly  he  gazes  them  down:  the  false  smiles  flicker 
away  from  their  feeble  lineaments ;  woe  and  terror  on  their 
aspects, — they  sink,  they  shrivel,  they  dissolve  I 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  wreck  cast  back  from  Charybdis. 

Souviens-toi  de  ta  Gabrielle. 

GUY  DARRELL  turned  hurriedly  from  the  large  house  in  the 
great  square,  and,  more  -and  more  absorbed  in  revery,  he 
wandered  out  of  his  direct  way  homeward,  clear  and  bread 
though  it  was,  and  did  not  rouse  himself  till  he  felt,  as  it 
were,  that  the  air  had  grown  darker;  and  looking  vaguely 
round,  he  saw  that  he  had  strayed  into  a  dim  maze  of  lanes 
and  passages.  He  paused  under  one  of  the  rare  lamp-posts, 
gathering  up  his  recollections  of  the  London  he  had  so  long 
quitted,  and  doubtful  for  a  moment  or  two  which  turn  to 
take.  Just  then,  up  from  an  alley  fronting  him  at  right  an- 
gles, came  suddenly,  warily,  a  tall,  sinewy,  ill-boding  tatter- 
demalion figure,  and,  seeing  Darrell's  face  under  the  lamp, 
halted  abrupt  at  the  mouth  of  the  narrow  passage  from  which 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  451 

it  had  emerged, — a  dark  form  filling  up  the  dark  aperture. 
Does  that  ragged  wayfarer  recognize  a  foe  by  the  imperfect 
ray  of  the  lamplight?  or  is  he  a  mere  vulgar  footpad,  who  is 
doubting  whether  he  should  spring  upon  a  prey?  Hostile  his 
look,  his  gestures,  the  sudden  cowering  down  of  the  strong 
frame  as  if  for  a  bound;  but  still  he  is  irresolute.  What 
awes  him?  What  awes  the  tiger,  who  would  obey  his  blood- 
instinct  without  fear,  in  his  rush  on  the  Negro,  the  Hindoo ; 
but  who  halts  and  hesitates  at  the  sight  of  the  white  man,  the 
lordly  son  of  Europe?  Darrell's  eye  was  turned  towards  the 
dark  passage,  towards  the  dark  figure, —  carelessly,  neither 
recognizing  nor  fearing  nor  defying, —  carelessly,  as  at  any 
harmless  object  in  crowded  streets  and  at  broad  day.  But 
while  that  eye  was  on  him,  the  tatterdemalion  halted;  and 
indeed,  whatever  his  hostility,  or  whatever  his  daring,  the 
sight  of  Darrell  took  him  by  so  sudden  a  surprise  that  he 
could  not  at  once  re-collect  his  thoughts,  and  determine  how 
to  approach  the  quiet  unconscious  man,  who,  in  reach  of  his 
spring,  fronted  his  overwhelming  physical  strength  with  the 
habitual  air  of  dignified  command.  His  first  impulse  was 
that  of  violence;  his  second  impulse  curbed  the  first.  But 
Darrell  now  turns  quickly,  and  walks  straight  on;  the  figure 
quits  the  mouth  of  the  passage,  and  follows  with  a  long  and 
noiseless  stride.  It  has  nearly  gained  Darrell.  With  what 
intent?  A  fierce  one,  perhaps, —  for  the  man's  face  is  sinister, 
and  his  state  evidently  desperate, —  when  there  emerges  un- 
expectedly from  an  ugly  looking  court  or  cul-de-sac,  just 
between  Darrell  and  his  pursuer,  a  slim,  long-backed, 
buttoned-up,  weazel-faced  policeman.  The  policeman  eyes 
the  tatterdemalion  instinctively,  then  turns  his  glance 
towards  the  solitary  defenceless  gentleman  in  advance,  and 
walks  on,  keeping  himself  between  the  two.  The  tatterde- 
malion stifles  an  impatient  curse.  Be  his  purpose  force,  be  it 
only  supplication,  be  it  colloquy  of  any  kind,  impossible  to 
fulfil  it  while  that  policeman  is  there.  True  that  in  his 
powerful  hands  he  could  have  clutched  that  slim,  long-backed 
officer,  and  broken  him  in  two  as  a  willow-wand.  But  that 
officer  is  the  Personation  of  Law,  and  can  stalk  through  a 


452  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

legion  of  tatterdemalions  as  a  ferret  may  glide  through  a  barn 
full  of  rats.  The  prowler  feels  he  is  suspected.  Unknown 
as  yet  to  the  London  police,  he  has  no  desire  to  invite  their 
scrutiny.  He  crosses  the  way;  he  falls  back;  he  follows 
from  afar.  The  policeman  may  yet  turn  away  before  the 
safer  streets  of  the  metropolis  be  gained.  No;  the  cursed 
Incarnation  of  Law,  with  eyes  in  its  slim  back,  continues  its 
slow  strides  at  the  heels  of  the  unsuspicious  Darrell.  The 
more  solitary  defiles  are  already  passed, —  now  that  dim  lane, 
with  its  dead  wall  on  one  side.  By  the  dead  wall  skulks  the 
prowler;  on  the  other  side  still  walks  the  Law.  Now  —  alas 
for  the  prowler!  —  shine  out  the  throughfares,  no  longer  dim 
nor  deserted, —  Leicester  Square,  the  Hay  market,  Pall  Mall, 
Carlton  Gardens;  Darrell  is  at  his  door.  The  policeman 
turns  sharply  round.  There,  at  the  corner  near  the  learned 
Club-house,  halts  the  tatterdemalion.  Towards  the  tatter- 
demalion the  policeman  now  advances  quickly.  The  tatter- 
demalion is  quicker  still;  fled  like  a  guilty  thought. 

Back,  back,  back  into  that  maze  of  passages  and  courts, — 
back  to  the  mouth  of  that  black  alley.  There  he  halts  again. 
Look  at  him.  He  has  arrived  in  London  but  that  very  night, 
after  an  absence  of  more  than  four  years.  He  has  arrived 
from  the  sea-side  on  foot;  see,  his  shoes  are  worn  into  holes. 
He  has  not  yet  found  a  shelter  for  the  night.  He  has  been 
directed  towards  that  quarter,  thronged  with  adventurers, 
native  and  foreign,  for  a  shelter,  safe,  if  squalid.  It  is  some- 
where near  that  court  at  the  mouth  of  which  he  stands.  He 
looks  round:  the  policeman  is  baffled;  the  coast  clear.  He 
steals  forth,  and  pauses  under  the  same  gaslight  as  that  under 
which  Guy  Darrell  had  paused  before, —  under  the  same  gas- 
light, under  the  same  stars.  From  some  recess  in  his  rags  he 
draws  forth  a  large,  distained,  distended  pocket-book, —  last 
relic  of  sprucer  days, — leather  of  dainty  morocco,  once  elabo- 
rately tooled,  patent  springs,  fairy  lock,  fit  receptacle  for 
bank-notes,  billets-doux,  memoranda  of  debts  of  honour,  or 
pleasurable  engagements.  Now  how  worn,  tarnished,  greasy, 
rascallion-like,  the  costly  bauble !  Filled  with  what  motley, 
unlovable  contents:  stale  pawn-tickets  of  foreign  monts  de 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  453 

piete,  pledges  never  henceforth  to  be  redeemed;  scrawls  by 
villanous  hands  in  thievish  hierolgyphics ;  ugly  implements 
replacing  the  malachite  penknife,  the  golden  toothpick,  the 
jewelled  pencil-case,  once  so  neatly  set  within  their  satin 
lappets.  Ugly  implements,  indeed, — a  file,  a  gimlet,  loaded 
dice.  Pell-mell,  with  such  more  hideous  and  recent  contents, 
dishonoured  evidences  of  gaudier  summer  life, —  locks  of 
ladies'  hair,  love-notes  treasured  mechanically,  not  from 
amorous  sentiment,  but  perhaps  from  some  vague  idea  that 
they  might  be  of  use  if  those  who  gave  the  locks  or  wrote  the 
notes  should  be  raised  in  fortune,  and  could  buy  back  the 
memorials  of  shame.  Diving  amidst  these  miscellaneous 
documents  and  treasures,  the  prowler's  hand  rested  on  some 
old  letters,  in  clerk-like  fair  calligraphy,  tied  round  with  a 
dirty  string,  and  on  them,  in  another  and  fresher  writing,  a 
scrap  that  contained  an  address, —  "Samuel  Adolphus  Poole, 
Esq.,  Alhambra  Villa,  Regent's  Park."  "To-morrow,  Nix 
my  Dolly;  to-morrow,"  muttered  the  tatterdemalion;  "but 
to-night, —  plague  on  it,  where  is  the  other  blackguard's  di- 
rection? Ah,  here!"  And  he  extracted  from  the  thievish 
scrawls  a  peculiarly  thievish-looking  hieroglyph.  Now,  as 
he  lifts  it  up  to  read  by  the  gaslight,  survey  him  well.  Do 
you  not  know  him?  Is  it  possible?  What!  the  brilliant 
sharper!  The  ruffian  exquisite !  Jasper  Losely !  Can  it  be? 
Once  before,  in  the  fields  of  Fawley,  we  beheld  him  out  at 
elbows,  seedy,  shabby,  ragged.  But  then  it  was  the  decay  of  a 
foppish  spendthrift, — clothes  distained,  ill-assorted,  yet,  still 
of  fine  cloth;  shoes  in  holes,  yet  still  pearl-coloured  brode- 
quins.  But  now  it  is  the  decay  of  no  foppish  spendthrift: 
the  rags  are  not  of  fine  cloth ;  the  tattered  shoes  are  not  the 
brodequins.  The  man  has  fallen  far  below  the  politer  grades 
of  knavery,  in  which  the  sharper  affects  the  beau.  And  the 
countenance,  as  we  last  saw  it,  if  it  had  lost  much  of  its  ear- 
lier beauty,  was  still  incontestably  handsome.  What  with 
vigour  and  health  and  animal  spirits,  then  on  the  aspect  still 
lingered  light;  now  from  corruption  the  light  itself  was 
gone.  In  that  herculean  constitution  excess  of  all  kinds  had 
at  length  forced  its  ravage,  and  the  ravage  was  visible  in  the 


454  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  ITV 

ruined  face.  The  once  sparkling  eye  was  dull  and  bloodshot. 
The  colours  of  the  cheek,  once  clear  and  vivid,  to  which  fiery 
drink  had  only  sent  the  blood  in  a  warmer  glow,  were  now  of 
a  leaden  dulness,  relieved  but  by  broken  streaks  of  angry  red, 
like  gleams  of  flame  struggling  through  gathered  smoke. 
The  profile,  once  sharp  and  delicate  like  Apollo's,  was  now 
confused  in  its  swollen  outline;  a  few  years  more,  and  it 
would  be  gross  as  that  of  Silenus, — the  nostrils,  distended 
with  incipient  carbuncles,  which  betray  the  gnawing  fang 
that  alcohol  fastens  into  the  liver.  Evil  passions  had  de- 
stroyed the  outlines  of  the  once  beautiful  lips,  arched  as  a 
Cupid's  bow.  The  sidelong,  lowering,  villanous  expression 
which  had  formerly  been  but  occasional  was  now  habitual 
and  heightened.  It  was  the  look  of  the  bison  before  it  gores. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  even  yet  on  the  countenance  there 
lingered  the  trace  of  that  lavish  favour  bestowed  on  it  by  na- 
ture. An  artist  would  still  have  said,  "How  handsome  that 
ragamuffin  must  have  been !  "  And  true  is  it,  also,  that  there 
was  yet  that  about  the  bearing  of  the  man  which  contrasted 
his  squalor,  and  seemed  to  say  that  he  had  not  been  born  to 
wear  rags  and  loiter  at  midnight  amongst  the  haunts  of 
thieves.  Nay,  I  am  not  sure  that  you  would  have  been  as 
incredulous  now,  if  told  that  the  wild  outlaw  before  you  had 
some  claim  by  birth  or  by  nurture  to  the  rank  of  gentleman, 
as  you  would  had  you  seen  the  gay  spendthrift  in  his  gaudy 
day.  For  then  he  seemed  below,  and  now  he  seemed  above, 
the  grade  in  which  he  took  place.  And  all  this  made  his 
aspect  yet  more  sinister,  and  the  impression  that  he  was 
dangerous  yet  more  profound.  Muscular  strength  often  re- 
mains to  a  powerful  frame  long  after  the  constitution  is 
undermined,  and  Jasper  Losely's  frame  was  still  that  of  a 
formidable  athlete;  nay,  its  strength  was  yet  more  apparent 
now  that  the  shoulders  and  limbs  had  increased  in  bulk  than 
when  it  was  half -disguised  in  the  lissome  symmetry  of  ex- 
quisite proportion, — less  active,  less  supple,  less  capable  of 
endurance,  but  with  more  crushing  weight  in  its  rush  or  its 
blow.  It  was  the  figure  in  which  brute  force  seems  so  to 
predominate  that  in  a  savage  state  it  would  have  worn  a 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  455 

crown,  —  the  figure  which  secures  command  and  authority  in 
all  societies  where  force  alone  gives  the  law.  Thus,  under 
the  gaslight  and  under  the  stars,  stood  the  terrible  animal, 

—  a  strong  man  imbruted;  SOUVIENS-TOI  DE  TA  GABRIELLE." 
There,   still  uneffaced,  though  the  gold  threads  are  all  tar- 
nished and  ragged,  are  the  ominous  words  on  the  silk  of  the 
she-devil's  love-token!    But  Jasper  has  now  inspected  the 
direction  on  the  paper  he  held  to  the  lamp-light,  and,  satis- 
fying himself  that  he  was  in  the  right  quarter,  restored  the 
paper  to  the  bulky  distended  pocket-book  and  walked  sullenly 
on  towards  the  court  from  which  had  emerged  the  policeman 
who  had  crossed  his  prowling  chase. 

"  It  is  the  most  infernal  shame, "  said  Losely  between  his 
grinded  teeth,  "that  I  should  be  driven  to  these  wretched 
dens  for  a  lodging,  while  that  man,  who  ought  to  feel  bound 
to  maintain  me,  should  be  rolling  in  wealth,  and  cottoned  up 
in  a  palace.  But  he  shall  fork  out.  Sophy  must  be  hunted 
up.  I  will  clothe  her  in  rags  like  these.  She  shall  sit  at  his 
street-door.  I  will  shame  the  miserly  hunks.  But  how  track 
the  girl?  Have  I  no  other  hold  over  him?  Can  I  send  Dolly 
Poole  to  him?  How  addled  my  brains  are!  —  want  of  food, 
want  of  sleep.  Is  this  the  place?  Peuh! — " 

Thus  murmuring,  he  now  reached  the  arch  of  the  court,  and 
was  swallowed  up  in  its  gloom.  A  few  strides  and  he  came 
into  a  square  open  space  only  lighted  by  the  skies.  A  house, 
larger  than  the  rest,  which  were  of  the  meanest  order,  stood 
somewhat  back,  occupying  nearly  one  side  of  the  quadrangle, 

—  old,  dingy,  dilapidated.     At  the  door  of  this  house  stood 
another  man,  applying  his  latch-key  to  the  lock.     As  Losely 
approached,    the  man  turned  quickly,  half  in  fear,  half  in 
menace, — a  small,  very  thin,  impish-looking  man,  with  pecu- 
liarly restless  features  that  seemed  trying  to  run  away  from 
his  face.     Thin  as  he  was,  he  looked  all  skin  and  no  bones, — 
a  goblin  of  a  man  whom  it  would  not  astonish  you  to  hear 
could  creep  through  a  keyhole,  seeming  still  more  shadowy 
and  impalpable  by  his  slight,  thin,  sable  dress,  not  of  cloth, 
but  a  sort  of  stuff  like  alpaca.     Nor  was  that  dress  ragged, 
nor,  as  seen  but  in  starlight,  did  it  look  worn  or  shabby;  still 


456  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

you  had  but  to  glance  at  the  creature  to  feel  that  it  was  a 
child  in  the  same  Family  of  Night  as  the  ragged  felon  that 
towered  by  its  side.  The  two  outlaws  stared  at  each  other. 
"Cutts!"  said  Losely,  in  the  old  rollicking  voice,  but  in  a 
hoarser,  rougher  key,  "Cutts,  my  boy,  here  I  am;  welcome 
me!" 

"  What?  General  Jas. ! "  returned  Cutts,  in  a  tone  which  was 
not  without  a  certain  respectful  awe,  and  then  proceeded  to 
pour  out  a  series  of  questions  in  a  mysterious  language,  which 
maybe  thus  translated  and  abridged:  "How  long  have  you 
been  in  England?  How  has  it  fared  with  you?  You  seem  very 
badly  off;  coming  here  to  hide?  Nothing  very  bad,  I  hope? 
What  is  it?" 

Jasper  answered  in  the  same  language,  though  with  less 
practised  mastery  of  it,  and  with  that  constitutional  levity 
which,  whatever  the  time  or  circumstances,  occasionally  gave 
a  strange  sort  of  wit,  or  queer,  uncanny,  devil-me-care  vein 
of  drollery,  to  his  modes  of  expression. 

"Three  months  of  the  worst  luck  man  ever  had;  a  row  with 
the  gens-d'armes, —  long  story:  three  of  our  pals  seized; 
affair  of  the  galleys  for  them,  I  suspect  (French  frogs  can't 
seize  me !) ;  fricasseed  one  or  two  of  them ;  broke  away,  crossed 
the  country,  reached  the  coast;  found  an  honest  smuggler; 
landed  off  Sussex  with  a  few  other  kegs  of  brandy;  remem- 
bered you,  preserved  the  address  you  gave  me,  and  conde- 
scend to  this  rat-hole  for  a  night  or  so.  Let  me  in;  knock  up 
somebody,  break  open  the  larder.  I  want  to  eat,  I  am  fam- 
ished ;  I  should  have  eaten  you  by  this  time,  only  there 's 
nothing  on  your  bones." 

The  little  man  opened  the  door, —  a  passage  black  as 
Erebus.  "Give  me  your  hand,  General."  Jasper  was  led 
through  the  pitchy  gloom  for  a  few  yards;  then  the  guide 
found  a  gas-cock,  and  the  place  broke  suddenly  into  light: 
a  dirty  narrow  staircase  on  one  side;  facing  it  a  sort  of 
lobby,  in  which  an  open  door  showed  a  long  sanded  parlour, 
like  that  in  public  houses ;  several  tables,  benches,  the  walls 
whitewashed,  but  adorned  with  sundry  ingenious  designs 
made  by  charcoal  or  the  smoked  ends  of  clay -pipes;  a  strong 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  457 

smell  of  stale  tobacco  and  of  gin  and  rum.  Another  gas- 
light, swinging  from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  sprang  into 
light  as  Cutts  touched  the  tap-cock. 

"  Wait  here,"  said  the  guide.  "I  will  go  and  get  you  some 
supper." 

"  And  some  brandy, "  said  Jasper. 

"Of  course." 

The  bravo  threw  himself  at  length  on  one  of  the  tables, 
and,  closing  his  eyes,  moaned.  His  vast  strength  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  physical  pain.  In  its  stout  knots  and 
fibres,  aches  and  sharp  twinges,  the  dragon-teeth  of  which 
had  been  sown  years  ago  in  revels  or  brawls,  which  then 
seemed  to  bring  but  innocuous  joy  and  easy  triumph,  now 
began  to  gnaw  and  grind.  But  when  Cutts  reappeared  with 
coarse  viands  and  the  brandy  bottle,  Jasper  shook  off  the 
sense  of  pain,  as  does  a  wounded  wild  beast  that  can  still 
devour;  and  after  regaling  fast  and  ravenously,  he  emptied 
half  the  bottle  at  a  draught,  and  felt  himself  restored  and 
fresh. 

"Shall  you  fling  yourself  amongst  the  swell  fellows  who 
hold  their  club  here,  General?"  asked  Cutts;  "  'tis  a  bad 
trade;  every  year  it  gets  worse.  Or  have  you  not  some 
higher  game  in  your  eye?" 

"  I  have  higher  game  in  my  eye.  One  bird  I  marked  down 
this  very  night.  But  that  may  be  slow  work,  and  uncertain. 
I  have  in  this  pocket-book  a  bank  to  draw  upon  meanwhile." 

"How?  forged  French  billets  de  banque?  dangerous." 

"Pooh!  better  than  that, —  letters  which  prove  theft  against 
a  respectable  rich  man." 

"Ah,  you  expect  hush-money?" 

"Exactly  so.     I  have  good  friends  in  London." 

"Among  them,  I  suppose,  that  affectionate  'adopted 
mother,'  who  would  have  kept  you  in  such  order." 

"Thousand  thunders!  I  hope  not.  I  am  not  a  supersti- 
tious man,  but  I  fear  that  woman  as  if  she  were  a  witch,  and 
I  believe  she  is  one.  You  remember  black  Jean,  whom  we 
call  Sansculotte.  He  would  have  filled  a  churchyard  with  his 
own  brats  for  a  five-franc  piece;  but  he  would  not  have 


458  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

crossed  a  churchyard  alone  at  night  for  a  thousand  naps. 
Well,  that  woman  to  me  is  what  a  churchyard  was  to  black 
Jean.  No :  if  she  is  in  London,  I  have  but  to  go  to  her  house 
and  say,  'Food,  shelter,  money;'  and  I  would  rather  ask  Jack 
Ketch  for  a  rope." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it,  General?  She  does  not  beat 
you ;  she  is  not  your  wife.  I  have  seen  many  a  stout  fellow, 
who  would  stand  fire  without  blinking,  show  the  white 
feather  at  a  scold's  tongue.  But  then  he  must  be  spliced  to 
her—" 

"Cutts,  that  Griffin  does  not  scold:  she  preaches.  She 
wants  to  make  me  spoony,  Cutts:  she  talks  of  my  young 
days,  Cutts;  she  wants  to  blight  me  into  what  she  calls  an 
honest  man,  Cutts, — the  virtuous  dodge!  She  snubs  and  cows 
me,  and  frightens  me  out  of  my  wits,  Cutts;  for  I  do  be- 
lieve that  the  witch  is  determined  to  have  me,  body  and  soul, 
and  to  marry  me  some  day  in  spite  of  myself,  Cutts;  and  if 
ever  you  see  me  about  to  be  clutched  in  those  horrible  paws, 
poison  me  with  ratsbane,  or  knock  me  on  the  head,  Cutts." 

The  little  man  laughed  a  little  laugh,  sharp  and  eldrich, 
at  the  strange  cowardice  of  the  stalwart  dare-devil.  But 
Jasper  did  not  echo  the  laugh. 

"  Hush ! "  he  said  timidly,  "  and  let  me  have  a  bed,  if  you 
can;  I  have  not  slept  in  one  for  a  week,  and  my  nerves  are 
shaky." 

The  imp  lighted  a  candle-end  at  the  gas-lamp,  and  con- 
ducted Losely  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  sleeping-room,  which 
was  less  comfortless  than  might  be  supposed.  He  resigned 
his  bed  to  the  wanderer,  who  flung  himself  on  it,  rags  and 
all.  But  sleep  was  no  more  at  his  command  than  it  is  at  a 
king's. 

"Why  the did  you  talk  of  that  witch?  "  he  cried  peev- 
ishly to  Cutts,  who  was  composing  himself  to  rest  on  the 
floor.  "I  swear  I  fancy  I  feel  her  sitting  on  my  chest  like  a 
nightmare." 

He  turned  with  a  vehemence  which  shook  the  walls,  and 
wrapped  the  coverlet  round  him,  plunging  his  head  into  its 
folds.  Strange  though  it  seem  to  the  novice  in  human  na- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  459 

ture,  to  Jasper  Losely  the  woman  who  had  so  long  lived  but 
for  one  object  —  namely,  to  save  him  from  the  gibbet  —  was 
as  his  evil  genius,  his  haunting  fiend.  He  had  conceived  a 
profound  terror  of  her  from  the  moment  he  perceived  that 
she  was  resolutely  bent  upon  making  him  honest.  He  had 
broken  from  her  years  ago,  fled,  resumed  his  evil  courses, 
hid  himself  from  her, —  in  vain.  Wherever  he  went,  there 
went  she.  He  might  baffle  the  police,  not  her.  Hunger  had 
often  forced  him  to  accept  her  aid.  As  soon  as  he  received 
it,  he  hid  from  her  again,  burying  himself  deeper  and  deeper 
in  the  mud,  like  a  persecuted  tench.  He  associated  her  idea 
with  all  the  ill-luck  that  had  befallen  him.  Several  times 
some  villanous  scheme  on  which  he  had  counted  to  make  his 
fortune  had  been  baffled  in  the  most  mysterious  way ;  and  just 
when  baffled,  and  there  seemed  no  choice  but  to  cut  his  own 
throat  or  some  one  else's,  up  turned  grim  Arabella  Crane,  in 
the  iron-gray  gown,  and  with  the  iron-gray  ringlets, — hate- 
fully, awfully  beneficent, —  offering  food,  shelter,  gold, —  and 
some  demoniacal,  honourable  work.  Often  had  he  been  in 
imminent  peril  from  watchful  law  or  treacherous  accomplice. 
She  had  warned  and  saved  him,  as  she  had  saved  him  from 
the  fell  Gabrielle  Desmarets,  who,  unable  to  bear  the  sen- 
tence of  penal  servitude,  after  a  long  process,  defended  with 
astonishing  skill  and  enlisting  the  romantic  sympathies  of 
young  France,  had  contrived  to  escape  into  another  world  by 
means  of  a  subtle  poison  concealed  about  her  distinguee  per- 
son, and  which  she  had  prepared  years  ago  with  her  own 
bloodless  hands,  and  no  doubt  scientifically  tested  its  effects 
on  others.  The  cobra  di  capella  is  gone  at  last!  "  Souviens- 
toi  de  ta  Gabrielle,"  O  Jasper  Losely!  But  why  Arabella 
Crane  should  thus  continue  to  watch  over  him  whom  she  no 
longer  professed  to  love,  how  she  should  thus  have  acquired 
the  gift  of  ubiquity  and  the  power  to  save  him,  Jasper 
Losely  could  not  conjecture.  The  whole  thing  seemed  to  him 
weird  and  supernatural.  Most  truly  did  he  say  that  she  had 
cowed  him.  He  had  often  longed  to  strangle  her;  when  ab- 
sent from  her,  had  often  resolved  upon  that  act  of  gratitude. 
The  moment  he  came  in  sight  of  her  stern,  haggard  face,  her 


460  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

piercing  lurid  eyes;  the  moment  he  heard  her  slow,  dry  voice 
in  some  such  sentences  as  these :  "  Again  you  come  to  me  in 
your  trouble,  and  ever  shall.     Am  I  not  still  as  your  mother, 
but  with  a  wife's  fidelity,  till  death  us  do  part?     There  is  the 
portrait  of  what  you  were :  look  at  it,  Jasper.     Now  turn  to 
the  glass :  see  what  you  are.     Think  of  the  fate  of  Gabrielle 
Desmarets!     But  for  me,  what,  long  since,  had  been  your 
own?    But  I  will  save  you:  I  have  sworn  it.     You  shall  be 
wax  in  these  hands  at  last," — the  moment  that  voice  thus 
claimed  and  insisted  on  redeeming  him,  the  ruffian  felt  a  cold 
shudder,  his  courage  oozed,  he  could  no  more  have  nerved  his 
arm  against  her  than  a  Thug  would  have  lifted  his  against 
the  dire  goddess  of  his  murderous  superstition.     Jasper  could 
not  resist  a  belief  that  the  life  of  this  dreadful  protectress 
was,  somehow  or  other,  made  essential  to  his ;  that,  were  she 
to  die,  he  should  perish  in  some  ghastly  and  preternatural 
expiation.     But  for  the  last  few  months  he  had,  at  length, 
escaped  from  her;  diving  so  low,  so  deep  into  the  mud,  that 
even  her  net  could  not  mesh  him.     Hence,  perhaps,  the  im- 
minence of  the  perils  from  which  he  had  so  narrowly  escaped, 
hence  the  utterness  of  his  present  destitution.     But  man, 
however  vile,  whatever  his  peril,  whatever  his  destitution, 
was  born  free,  and  loves  liberty.     Liberty  to  go  to  Satan  in 
his  own  way  was  to  Jasper  Losely  a  supreme  blessing  com- 
pared to  that  benignant  compassionate  espionage,  with  its  re- 
lentless eye  and  restraining  hand.     Alas  and  alas !  deem  not 
this  perversity  unnatural  in  that  headstrong  self -destroyer ! 
How  many  are  there  whom  not  a  grim,  hard-featured  Arabella 
Crane,    but    the    long-suffering,    divine,    omniscient,    gentle 
Providence  itself,   seeks  to  warn,   to  aid,  to  save;   and  is 
shunned,  and  loathed,  and  fled  from,  as  if  it  were  an  evil 
genius!     How  many  are  there  who  fear  nothing  so  much  as 
the  being  made  good  in  spite  of  themselves?  —  how  many?  — 
who  can  count  them? 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  461 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  public  man  needs  but  one  patron ;  namely,  THE  LUCKY  MOMENT. 

"AT  his  house  in  Carlton  Gardens,  Guy  Darrell,  Esq.,  for 
the  season." 

Simple  insertion  in  the  pompous  list  of  Fashionable  Arri- 
vals !  the  name  of  a  plain  commoner  embedded  in  the  amber 
which  glitters  with  so  many  coronets  and  stars!  Yet  such 
is  England,  with  all  its  veneration  for  titles,  that  the  eyes  of 
the  public  passed  indifferently  over  the  rest  of  that  chronicle 
of  illustrious  "whereabouts,"  to  rest  with  interest,  curiosity, 
speculation,  on  the  unemblazoned  name  which  but  a  day  be- 
fore had  seemed  slipped  out  of  date, —  obsolete  as  that  of  an 
actor  who  figures  no  more  in  play-bills.  Unquestionably 
the  sensation  excited  was  due,  in  much,  to  the  "ambiguous 
voices"  which  Colonel  Morley  had  disseminated  throughout 
the  genial  atmosphere  of  club-rooms.  "Arrived  in  London  for 
the  season!  "  —  he,  the  orator,  once  so  famous,  long  so  forgot- 
ten, who  had  been  out  of  the  London  world  for  the  space  of 
more  than  half  a  generation.  "Why  now?  why  for  the  sea- 
son?" Quoth  the  Colonel,  "He  is  still  in  the  prime  of  life 
as  a  public  man,  and  —  a  CRISIS  is  at  hand!" 

But  that  which  gave  weight  and  significance  to  Alban 
Morley 's  hints  was  the  report  in  the  newspapers  of  Guy 
Darrell's  visit  to  his  old  constituents,  and  of  the  short  speech 
he  had  addressed  to  them,  to  which  he  had  so  slightly  re- 
ferred in  his  conversation  with  Alban.  True,  the  speech  was 
short:  true,  it  touched  but  little  on  passing  topics  of  political 
interest;  rather  alluding,  with  modesty  and  terseness,  to  the 
contests  and  victories  of  a  former  day.  But  still,  in  the  few 
words  there  was  the  swell  of  the  old  clarion,  the  wind  of  the 
Paladin's  horn  which  woke  Fontarabian  echoes. 


462  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

It  is  astonishing  how  capricious,  how  sudden,  are  the 
changes  in  value  of  a  public  man.  All  depends  upon  whether 
the  public  want,  or  believe  they  want,  the  man ;  and  that  is  a 
question  upon  which  the  public  do  not  know  their  own  minds 
a  week  before;  nor  do  they  always  keep  in  the  same  mind, 
when  made  up,  for  a  week  together.  If  they  do  not  want  a 
man;  if  he  do  not  hit  the  taste,  nor  respond  to  the  exigency 
of  the  time, —  whatever  his  eloquence,  his  abilities,  his  vir- 
tues, they  push  him  aside  or  cry  him  down.  Is  he  wanted? 
does  the  mirror  of  the  moment  reflect  his  image?  —  that  mir- 
ror is  an  intense  magnifier:  his  proportions  swell;  they 
become  gigantic.  At  that  moment  the  public  wanted  some 
man;  and  the  instant  the  hint  was  given,  "Why  not  Guy 
Darrell?"  Guy  Darrell  was  seized  upon  as  the  man  wanted. 
It  was  one  of  those  times  in  our  Parliamentary  history  when 
the  public  are  out  of  temper  with  all  parties;  when  recog- 
nized leaders  have  contrived  to  damage  themselves;  when  a 
Cabinet  is  shaking,  and  the  public  neither  care  to  destroy  nor 
to  keep  it, —  a  time  too,  when  the  country  seemed  in  some 
danger,  and  when,  mere  men  of  business  held  unequal  to  the 
emergency,  whatever  name  suggested  associations  of  vigour, 
eloquence,  genius  rose  to  a  premium  above  its  market  price 
in  times  of  tranquillity  and  tape.  Without  effort  of  his  own, 
by  the  mere  force  of  the  undercurrent,  Guy  Darrell  was 
thrown  up  from  oblivion  into  note.  He  could  not  form  a 
Cabinet,  certainly  not;  but  he  might  help  to  bring  a  Cabinet 
together,  reconcile  jarring  elements,  adjust  disputed  ques- 
tions, take  in  such  government  some  high  place,  influence  its 
councils,  and  delight  a  public  weary  of  the  oratory  of  the  day 
with  the  eloquence  of  a  former  race.  For  the  public  is  ever 
a  laudator  temporis  acti,  and  whatever  the  authors  or  the 
orators  immediately  before  it,  were  those  authors  and  orators 
Homers  and  Ciceros,  would  still  shake  a  disparaging  head, 
and  talk  of  these  degenerate  days  as  Homer  himself  talked 
ages  before  Leonidas  stood  in  the  pass  of  Thermopylae, 
or  Miltiades  routed  Asian  armaments  at  Marathon.  Guy 
Darrell  belonged  to  a  former  race.  The  fathers  of  those 
young  members  rising  now  into  fame  had  quoted  to  their  sons 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  463 

his  pithy  sentences,  his  vivid  images;  and  added,  as  Fox  ad- 
ded when  quoting  Burke,  "But  you  should  have  heard  and 
seen  the  man !  " 

Heard  and  seen  the  man!  But  there  he  was  again!  come 
up  as  from  a  grave, —  come  up  to  the  public  just  when  such  a 
man  was  wanted.  Wanted  how?  wanted  where?  Oh,  some- 
how and  somewhere !  There  he  is !  make  the  most  of  him. 

The  house  in  Carlton  Gardens  is  prepared,  the  establish- 
ment mounted.  Thither  flock  all  the  Viponts,  nor  they 
alone;  all  the  chiefs  of  all  parties,  nor  they  alone;  all  the 
notabilities  of  our  grand  metropolis.  Guy  Darrell  might  be 
startled  at  his  own  position;  but  he  comprehended  its  nature, 
and  it  did  not  discompose  his  nerves.  He  knew  public  life 
well  enough  to  be  aware  how  much  the  popular  favour  is  the 
creature  of  an  accident.  By  chance  he  had  nicked  the  time ; 
had  he  thus  come  to  town  the  season  before,  he  might  have 
continued  obscure,  a  man  like  Guy  Darrell  not  being  wanted 
then.  Whether  with  or  without  design,  his  bearing  con- 
firmed and  extended  the  effect  produced  by  his  reappearance. 
Gracious,  but  modestly  reserved,  he  spoke  little,  listened 
beautifully.  Many  of  the  questions  which  agitated  all 
around  him  had  grown  up  into  importance  since  his  day  of 
action;  nor  in  his  retirement  had  he  traced  their  progressive 
development,  with  their  changeful  effects  upon  men  and  par- 
ties. But  a  man  who  has  once  gone  deeply  into  practical 
politics  might  sleep  in  the  Cave  of  Trophonius  for  twenty 
years,  and  find,  on  waking,  very  little  to  learn.  Darrell  re- 
gained the  level  of  the  day,  and  seized  upon  all  the  strong 
points  on  which  men  were  divided,  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
prompt  and  comprehensive  intellect,  his  judgment  perhaps 
the  clearer  from  the  freshness  of  long  repose  and  the  com- 
posure of  dispassionate  survey.  When  partisans  wrangled  as 
to  what  should  have  been  done,  Darrell  was  silent;  when 
they  asked  what  should  be  done,  out  came  one  of  his  terse 
sentences,  and  a  knot  was  cut.  Meanwhile  it  is  true  this 
man,  round  whom  expectations  grouped  and  rumour  buzzed, 
was  in  neither  House  of  Parliament;  but  that  was  rather  a 
delay  to  his  energies  than  a  detriment  to  his  consequence. 


464  WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

Important  constituencies,  anticipating  a  vacancy,  were  al- 
ready on  the  look-out  for  him ;  a  smaller  constituency,  in  the 
interim,  Carr  Vipont  undertook  to  procure  him  any  day. 
There  was  always  a  Vipont  ready  to  accept  something,  even 
the  Chiltern  Hundreds.  But  Darrell,  not  without  reason, 
demurred  at  re-entering  the  House  of  Commons  after  an  ab- 
sence of  seventeen  years.  He  had  left  it  with  one  of  those 
rare  reputations  which  no  wise  man  likes  rashly  to  imperil. 
The  Viponts  sighed.  He  would  certainly  be  more  useful  in 
the  Commons  than  the  Lords,  but  still  in  the  Lords  he  would 
be  of  great  use.  They  would  want  a  debating  lord,  perhaps 
a  lord  acquainted  with  law  in  the  coming  CRISIS, —  if  he 
preferred  the  peerage?  Darrell  demurred  still.  The  man's 
modesty  was  insufferable;  his  style  of  speaking  might  not 
suit  that  august  assembly :  and  as  to  law,  he  could  never  now 
be  a  law  lord ;  he  should  be  but  a  ci-devant  advocate,  affecting 
the  part  of  a  judicial  amateur. 

In  short,  without  declining  to  re-enter  public  life,  seeming, 
on  the  contrary,  to  resume  all  his  interest  in  it,  Darrell  con- 
trived with  admirable  dexterity  to  elude  for  the  present  all 
overtures  pressed  upon  him,  and  even  to  convince  his  ad- 
mirers, not  only  of  his  wisdom,  but  of  his  patriotism  in  that 
reticence.  For  certainly  he  thus  managed  to  exercise  a  very 
considerable  influence:  his  advice  was  more  sought,  his  sug- 
gestions more  heeded,  and  his  power  in  reconciling  certain 
rival  jealousies  was  perhaps  greater  than  would  have  been 
the  case  if  he  had  actually  entered  either  House  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  thrown  himself  exclusively  into  the  ranks,  not 
only  of  one  party,  but  of  one  section  of  a  party.  Neverthe- 
less, such  suspense  could  not  last  very  long;  he  must  decide 
at  all  events  before  the  next  session.  Once  he  was  seen  in 
the  arena  of  his  old  triumphs,  on  the  benches  devoted  to 
strangers  distinguished  by  the  Speaker's  order.  There, 
recognized  by  the  older  members,  eagerly  gazed  at  by  the 
younger,  Guy  Darrell  listened  calmly,  throughout  a  long 
field-night,  to  voices  that  must  have  roused  from  forgotten 
graves  kindling  and  glorious  memories;  voices  of  those  — 
veterans  now  —  by  whose  side  he  had  once  struggled  for  some 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  465 

cause  which  he  had  then,  ;n  the  necessary  exaggeration  of  all 
honest  enthusiasm,  identified  with  a  nation's  life-blood. 
Voices,  too,  of  the  old  antagonists  over  whose  routed  argu- 
ments he  had  marched  triumphant  amidst  applauses  that  the 
next  day  rang  again  through  England  from  side  to  side. 
Hark!  the  very  man  with  whom,  in  the  old  battle-days,  he 
had  been  the  most  habitually  pitted,  is  speaking  now!  His 
tones  are  embarrassed,  his  argument  confused.  Does  he 
know  who  listens  yonder?  Old  members  think  so, —  smile, 
whisper  each  other,  and  glance  significantly  where  Darrell 
sits. 

Sits,  as  became  him,  tranquil,  respectful,  intent,  seem- 
ingly, perhaps  really,  unconscious  of  the  sensation  he  excites. 
What  an  eye  for  an  orator!  how  like  the  eye  in  a  portrait;  it 
seems  to  fix  on  each  other  eye  that  seeks  it, —  steady,  fasci- 
nating. Yon  distant  members,  behind  the  Speaker's  chair, 
at  the  far  distance,  feel  the  light  of  that  eye  travel  towards 
them.  How  lofty  and  massive,  among  all  those  rows  of 
human  heads,  seems  that  forehead,  bending  slightly  down, 
with  the  dark  strong  line  of  the  weighty  eyebrow!  But 
what  is  passing  within  that  secret  mind?  Is  there  mournful- 
ness  in  the  retrospect?  Is  there  eagerness  to  renew  the 
strife?  Is  that  interest  in  the  hour's  debate  feigned  or  real? 
Impossible  for  him  who  gazed  upon  that  face  to  say.  And 
that  eye  would  have  seemed  to  the  gazer  to  read  himself 
through  and  through  to  the  heart's  core,  long  ere  the  gazer 
could  hazard  a  single  guess  as  to  the  thoughts  beneath  that 
marble  forehead, —  as  to  the  emotions  within  the  heart  over 
which,  in  old  senatorial  fashion,  the  arms  were  folded  with 
so  conventional  an  ease. 


VOL.  i.  —  SO 


466  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTEE    VII. 

DA KK ELL  and  Lionel. 

DARRELL  had  received  Lionel  with  some  evident  embarrass- 
ment, which  soon  yielded  to  affectionate  warmth.  He  took 
to  the  young  man  whose  fortunes  he  had  so  improved ;  he  felt 
that  with  the  improved  fortunes  the  young  man's  whole  being 
was  improved:  assured  position,  early  commune  with  the  best 
social  circles,  in  which  the  equality  of  fashion  smooths  away 
all  disparities  in  rank,  had  softened  in  Lionel  much  of  the 
wayward  and  morbid  irritability  of  his  boyish  pride;  but  the 
high  spirit,  the  generous  love  of  independence,  the  scorn  of 
mercenary  calculation,  were  strong  as  ever ;  these  were  in  the 
grain  of  his  nature.  In  common  with  all  who  in  youth  aspire 
to  be  one  day  noted  from  the  " undistinguishable  many," 
Lionel  had  formed  to  himself  a  certain  ideal  standard,  above 
the  ordinary  level  of  what  the  world  is  contented  to  call  hon- 
est, or  esteem  clever.  He  admitted  into  his  estimate  of  life 
the  heroic  element,  not  undesirable  even  in  the  most  practical 
point  of  view,  for  the  world  is  so  in  the  habit  of  decrying;  of 
disbelieving  in  high  motives  and  pure  emotions;  of  daguer- 
reotyping  itself  with  all  its  ugliest  wrinkles,  stripped  of  the 
true  bloom  that  brightens,  of  the  true  expression  that  re- 
deems, those  defects  which  it  invites  the  sun  to  limn, — 
that  we  shall  never  judge  human  nature  aright,  if  we  do  not 
set  out  in  life  with  our  gaze  on  its  fairest  beauties,  and  our 
belief  in  its  latent  good.  In  a  word  we  should  begin  with 
the  Heroic,  if  we  would  learn  the  Human.  But  though  to 
himself  Lionel  thus  secretly  prescribed  a  certain  superiority 
of  type,  to  be  sedulously  aimed  at,  even  if  never  actually 
attained,  he  was  wholly  without  pedantry  and  arrogance 
towards  his  own  contemporaries.  From  this  he  was  saved 
not  only  by  good-nature,  animal  spirits,  frank  hardihood,  but 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  467 

by  the  very  affluence  of  ideas  which  animated  his  tongue, 
coloured  his  language,  and  whether  to  young  or  old,  wise  or 
dull,  made  his  conversation  racy  and  original.  He  was  a  de- 
lightful companion;  and  if  he  had  taken  much  instruction 
from  those  older  and  wiser  than  himself,  he  so  bathed  that 
instruction  in  the  fresh  fountain  of  his  own  lively  intelli- 
gence, so  warmed  it  at  his  own  beating  impulsive  heart,  that 
he  could  make  an  old  man's  gleanings  from  experience  seem 
a  young  man's  guesses  into  truth.  Faults  he  had,  of  course, 

—  chiefly  the  faults  common  at  his  age;  amongst  them,  per- 
haps,   the  most    dangerous   were, —  firstly,    carelessness    in 
money  matters;   secondly,    a  distaste   for  advice  in   which 
prudence  was  visibly  predominant.     His  tastes  were  not  in 
reality  extravagant:  but  money  slipped  through  his  hands, 
leaving  little  to  show  for  it;   and  when  his  quarterly  allow- 
ance became  due,  ample  though  it  was, — too  ample,  perhaps, 

—  debts  wholly  forgotten  started  up  to  seize  hold  of  it.     And 
debts  as  yet  being  manageable  were  not  regarded  with  suffi- 
cient horror.     Paid  or  put  aside,  as  the  case  might  be,  they 
were  merely  looked  upon  as  bores.     Youth  is  in  danger  till 
it  learn  to  look  upon  them  as  furies.     For  advice,  he  took  it 
with  pleasure,  when  clothed  with  elegance  and  art,  when  it 
addressed  ambition,  when  it  exalted  the  loftier  virtues.     But 
advice,  practical  and  prosy,  went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the 
other.     In  fact,  with  many  talents,  he  had  yet  no  adequate 
ballast  of  common-sense ;  and  if  ever  he  get  enough  to  steady 
his  bark  through  life's   trying  voyage,   the  necessity  of  so 
much  dull  weight  must  be  forcibly  stricken  home  less  to  his 
reason  than  his  imagination  or  his  heart.     But  if,  somehow 
or  other,  he  get  it  not,  I  will  not  insure  his  vessel. 

I  know  not  if  Lionel  Haughton  had  genius ;  he  never  as- 
sumed that  he  had :  but  he  had  something  more  like  genius 
than  that  prototype,  RESOLVE,  of  which  he  boasted  to  the 
artist.  He  had  YOUTH, — real  youth, — youth  of  mind,  youth 
of  heart,  youth  of  soul.  Lithe  and  supple  as  he  moved  before 
you,  with  the  eye  to  which  light  or  dew  sprang  at  once  from 
a  nature  vibrating  to  every  lofty,  every  tender  thought,  he 
seemed  more  than  young, — the  incarnation  of  youth. 


468  AVI  I  AT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

Darrell  took  to  him  at  once.  Amidst  all  the  engagements 
crowded  on  the  important  man,  he  contrived  to  see  Lionel 
daily.  And  what  may  seem  strange,  Guy  Darrell  felt  more 
at  home  with  Lionel  Haughton  than  with  any  of  his  own 
contemporaries, —  than  even  with  Alban  Morley.  To  the 
last,  indeed,  he  opened  speech  with  less  reserve  of  certain 
portions  of  the  past,  or  of  certain  projects  in  the  future.  But 
still,  even  there,  he  adopted  a  tone  of  half-playful,  half- 
mournful  satire,  which  might  be  in  itself  disguise.  Alban 
Morley,  with  all  his  good  qualities,  was  a  man  of  the  world ; 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  Guy  Darrell  talked  to  him.  But  it 
was  only  a  very  small  part  of  Guy  Darrell  the  Man,  of  which 
the  world  could  say  "mine." 

To  Lionel  he  let  out,  as  if  involuntarily,  the  more  amiable, 
tender,  poetic  attributes  of  his  varying,  complex,  uncom- 
prehended  character;  not  professedly  confiding,  but  not  tak- 
ing pains  to  conceal.  Hearing  what  worldlings  would  call 
"  Sentiment "  in  Lionel,  he  seemed  to  glide  softly  down  to 
Lionel's  own  years  and  talk  "sentiment"  in  return.  After 
all,  this  skilled  lawyer,  this  noted  politician,  had  a  great 
dash  of  the  boy  still  in  him.  Eeader,  did  you  ever  meet  a 
really  clever  man  who  had  not? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SAITH  a  very  homely  proverb  ( pardon  its  vulgarity),  "  Yon  cannot  make  a 
silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear."  But  a  sow's  ear  is  a  much  finer  work  of  art 
than  a  silk  purse ;  and  grand,  indeed,  the  mechanician  who  could  make  a 
sow's  ear  out  of  a  silk  purse,  or  conjure  into  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood 
the  sarcenet  and  tulle  of  a  London  drawing-room. 

"MAMMA,"  asked  Honoria  Carr  Vipont,  "what  sort  of  a 
person  was  Mrs.  Darrell?" 

"She  was  not  in  our  set,  my  dear,"  answered  Lady  Selina. 
"The  Vipont  Crookes  are  just  one  of  those  connections  with 
which,  though  of  course  one  is  civil  to  all  connections,  one  is 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  469 

more  or  less  intimate  according  as  they  take  after  the  Viponts 
or  after  the  Crookes.  Poor  woman !  she  died  just  before  Mr. 
Darrell  entered  Parliament  and  appeared  in  society.  But  I 
should  say  she  was  not  an  agreeable  person.  Not  nice,"  ad- 
ded Lady  Selina,  after  a  pause,  and  conveying  a  world  of 
meaning  in  that  conventional  monosyllable. 

"I  suppose  she  was  very  accomplished,  very  clever?" 
"  Quite  the  reverse,  my  dear.     Mr.  Darrell  was  exceedingly 
young  when  he  married,  scarcely  of  age.     She  was  not  the 
sort  of  woman  to  suit  him." 

"  But  at  least  she  must  have  been  very  much  attached  to 
him,  very  proud  of  him?  " 

Lady  Selina  glanced  aside  from  her  work,  and  observed  her 
daughter's  face,  which  evinced  an  animation  not  usual  to 
a  young  lady  of  a  breeding  so  lofty,  and  a  mind  so  well 
disciplined. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Lady  Selina,  "that  she  was  proud  of 
him.  She  would  have  been  proud  of  his  station,  or  rather  of 
that  to  which  his  fame  and  fortune  would  have  raised  her, 
had  she  lived  to  enjoy  it.  But  for  a  few  years  after  her  mar- 
riage they  were  very  poor;  and  though  his  rise  at  the  bar  was 
sudden  and  brilliant,  he  was  long  wholly  absorbed  in  his 
profession,  and  lived  in  Bloomsbury.  Mrs.  Darrell  was  not 
proud  of  that.  The  Crookes  are  generally  fine,  give  them- 
selves airs,  marry  into  great  houses  if  they  can :  but  we  can't 
naturalize  them;  they  always  remain  Crookes, —  useful  con- 
nections, very!  Carr  says  we  have  not  a  more  useful, — but 
third-rate,  my  dear.  All  the  Crookes  are  bad  wives,  because 
they  are  never  satisfied  with  their  own  homes,  but  are  always 
trying  to  get  into  great  people's  homes.  Not  very  long  be- 
fore she  died,  Mrs.  Darrell  took  her  friend  and  relation,  Mrs. 
Lyndsay,  to  live  with  her.  I  suspect  it  was  not  from 
affection,  or  any  great  consideration  for  Mrs.  Lyndsay's 
circumstances  (which  were  indeed  those  of  actual  destitution, 
till  —  thanks  to  Mr.  Darrell  —  she  won  her  lawsuit),  but 
simply  because  she  looked  to  Mrs.  Lyndsay  to  get  her  into 
our  set.  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was  a  great  favourite  with  all  of 
us,  charming  manners, — perfectly  correct,  too, — thorough 


470  WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH  IT? 

Vipont,  thorough  gentlewoman,  but  artful!  Oh,  so  artful! 
She  humoured  poor  Mrs.  Darrell's  absurd  vanity;  but  she 
took  care  not  to  injure  herself.  Of  course,  Darrell's  wife, 
and  a  Vipont  —  though  only  a  Vipont  Crooke  —  had  free  pass- 
port into  the  outskirts  of  good  society,  the  great  parties,  and 
so  forth.  But  there  it  stopped;  even  I  should  have  been 
compromised  if  I  had  admitted  into  our  set  a  woman  who  was 
bent  on  compromising  herself.  Handsome,  in  a  bad  style, — 
not  the  Vipont  toumure;  and  not  only  silly  and  flirting,  but 
(we  are  alone,  keep  the  secret)  decidedly  vulgar,  my  dear." 

"  You  amaze  me !     How  such  a  man  —  "  Honoria  stopped, 
colouring  up  to  the  temples. 

"Clever  men,"  said  Lady  Selina,  "as  a  general  rule,  do 
choose  the  oddest  wives!  The  cleverer  a  man  is,  the  more 
easily,  I  do  believe,  a  woman  can  take  him  in.  However,  to 
do  Mr.  Darrell  justice,  he  has  been  taken  in  only  once.  After 
Mrs.  Darrell's  death,  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  I  suspect,  tried  her 
chance,  but  failed.  Of  course,  she  would  not  actually  stay 
in  the  same  house  with  a  widower  who  was  then  young,  and 
who  had  only  to  get  rid  of  a  wife  to  whom  one  was  forced 
to  be  shy  in  order  to  be  received  into  our  set  with  open 
arms,  and,  in  short,  to  be  of  the  very  best  monde.  Mr. 
Darrell  came  into  Parliament  immensely  rich  (a  legacy  from 
an  old  East  Indian,  besides  his  own  professional  savings); 
took  the  house  he  has  now,  close  by  us.  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was 
obliged  to  retire  to  a  cottage  at  Fulham.  But  as  she  pro- 
fessed to  be  a  second  mother  to  poor  Matilda  Darrell,  she 
contrived  to  be  very  much  at  Carlton  Gardens ;  her  daughter 
Caroline  was  nearly  always  there,  profiting  by  Matilda's  mas- 
ters; and  I  did  think  that  Mrs.  Lyndsay  would  have  caught 
Darrell,  but  your  papa  said  'No/  and  he  was  right,  as  he 
always  is.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Lyndsay  would  have  been  an 
excellent  wife  to  a  public  man :  so  popular ;  knew  the  world 
so  well ;  never  made  enemies  till  she  made  an  enemy  of  poor 
dear  Montfort,  but  that  was  natural.  By  the  by,  I  must 
write  to  Caroline.  Sweet  creature!  but  how  absurd,  shut- 
ting herself  up  as  if  she  were  fretting  for  Montfort !  That 's 
so  like  her  mother, —  heartless,  but  full  of  propriety." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  471 

Here  Carr  Vipont  and  Colonel  Morley  entered  the  room. 

"We  have  just  left  Darrell,"  said  Carr;  "he  will  dine  here 
to-day,  to  meet  our  cousin  Alban.  I  have  asked  his  cousin, 

young  Haughton,  and and ,  your  cousins,  Selina  (a 

small  party  of  cousins) ;  so  lucky  to  find  Darrell  disengaged." 

"I  ventured  to  promise,"  said  the  Colonel,  addressing 
Honoria  in  an  under  voice,  "that  Darrell  should  hear  you 
play  Beethoven." 

HONORIA. —  "Is  Mr.  Darrell  so  fond  of  music,  then?" 

COLONEL  MORLEY. —  "  One  would  not  have  thought  it.  He 
keeps  a  secretary  at  Fawley  who  plays  the  flute.  There  's 
something  very  interesting  about  Darrell.  I  wish  you  could 
hear  his  ideas  on  marriage  and  domestic  life:  more  freshness 
of  heart  than  in  the  young  men  one  meets  nowadays.  It 
may  be  prejudice ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  young  fellows 
of  the  present  race,  if  more  sober  and  staid  than  we  were,  are 
sadly  wanting  in  character  and  spirit, — no  warm  blood  in 
their  veins.  But  I  should  not  talk  thus  to  a  demoiselle  who 
has  all  those  young  fellows  at  her  feet." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Selina,  overhearing,  and  with  a  half 
laugh,  "Honoria  thinks  much  as  you  do:  she  finds  the 
young  men  so  insipid;  all  like  one  another, — the  same  set 
phrases." 

"The  same  stereotyped  ideas,"  added  Honoria,  moving 
away  with  a  gesture  of  calm  disdain. 

"A  very  superior  mind  hers,"  whispered  the  Colonel  to 
Carr  Vipont.  "She'll  never  marry  a  fool." 

Guy  Darrell  was  very  pleasant  at  "  the  small  family  dinner- 
party." Carr  was  always  popular  in  his  manners;  the  true 
old  House  of  Commons  manner,  which  was  very  like  that  of 
a  gentlemanlike  public  school.  Lady  Selina,  as  has  been 
said  before,  in  her  own  family  circle  was  natural  and  genial. 
Young  Carr,  there,  without  his  wife,  more  pretentious  than 
his  father, — being  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty, — felt  a  certain 
awe  of  Darrell,  and  spoke  little,  which  was  much  to  his  own 
credit  and  to  the  general  conviviality.  The  other  members 
of  the  symposium,  besides  Lady  Selina,  Honoria,  and  a 
younger  sister,  were  but  Darrell,  Lionel,  and  Lady  Selina's 


472  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

two  cousins;  elderly  peers, —  one  with  the  garter,  the  other 
in  the  Cabinet, — jovial  men  who  had  been  wild  fellows  once 
in  the  same  mess-room,  and  still  joked  at  each  other  when- 
ever they  met  as  they  met  now.  Lionel,  who  remembered 
Vance's  description  of  Lady  Selina,  and  who  had  since  heard 
her  spoken  of  in  society  as  a  female  despot  who  carried  to 
perfection  the  arts  by  which  despots  flourish,  with  majesty 
to  impose,  and  caresses  to  deceive —  an  Aurungzebe  in  petti- 
coats —  was  sadly  at  a  loss  to  reconcile  such  portraiture  with 
the  good-humoured,  motherly  woman  who  talked  to  him  of 
her  home,  her  husband,  her  children,  with  open  fondness  and 
becoming  pride,  and  who,  far  from  being  so  formidably  clever 
as  the  world  cruelly  gave  out,  seemed  to  Lionel  rather  below 
par  in  her  understanding;  strike  from  her  talk  its  kindliness, 
and  the  residue  was  very  like  twaddle.  After  dinner,  various 
members  of  the  Vipont  family  dropped  in, —  asked  impromptu 
by  Carr  or  by  Lady  Selina,  in  hasty  three-cornered  notes,  to 
take  that  occasion  of  renewing  their  acquaintance  with  their 
distinguished  connection.  By  some  accident,  amongst  those 
invited  there  were  but  few  young  single  ladies;  and,  by  some 
other  accident,  those  few  were  all  plain.  Honoria  Vipont 
was  unequivocally  the  belle  of  the  room.  It  could  not  but  be 
observed  that  Darrell  seemed  struck  with  her, —  talked  with 
her  more  than  with  any  other  lady;  and  when  she  went  to 
the  piano,  and  played  that  great  air  of  Beethoven's,  in  which 
music  seems  to  have  got  into  a  knot  that  only  fingers  the 
most  artful  can  unravel,  Darrell  remained  in  his  seat  aloof 
and  alone,  listening  no  doubt  with  ravished  attention.  But 
just  as  the  air  ended,  and  Honoria  turned  round  to  look  for 
him,  he  was  gone. 

Lionel  did  not  linger  long  after  him.  The  gay  young  man 
went  thence  to  one  of  those  vast  crowds  which  seemed  con- 
vened for  a  practical  parody  of  Mr.  Bentham's  famous  propo- 
sition,—  contriving  the  smallest  happiness  for  the  greatest 
number. 

It  was  a  very  good  house,  belonging  to  a  very  great  person. 
Colonel  Morley  had  procured  an  invitation  for  Lionel,  and 
said,  "Go;  you  should  be  seen  there."  Colonel  Morley  had 


"WHAT  WILL  HE  DO   WITH  IT?  473 

passed  the  age  of  growing  into  society :  no  such  cares  for  the 
morrow  could  add  a  cubit  to  his  conventional  stature.  One 
amongst  a  group  of  other  young  men  by  the  doorway,  Lionel 
beheld  Darrell,  who  had  arrived  before  him,  listening  to  a 
very  handsome  young  lady,  with  an  attention  quite  as  earnest 
as  that  which  had  gratified  the  superior  mind  of  the  well-edu- 
cated Honoria,  —  a  very  handsome  young  lady  certainly,  but 
not  with  a  superior  mind,  nor  supposed  hitherto  to  have  found 
young  gentlemen  "insipid."  Doubtless  she  would  henceforth 
do  so.  A  few  minutes  after  Darrell  was  listening  again ;  this 
time  to  another  young  lady,  generally  called  "fast."  If  his 
attentions  to  her  were  not  marked,  hers  to  him  were.  She 
rattled  on  to  him  volubly,  laughed,  pretty  hoyden,  at  her 
own  sallies,  and  seemed  at  last  so  to  fascinate  him  by  her  gay 
spirits  that  he  sat  down  by  her  side;  and  the  playful  smile 
on  his  lips  —  lips  that  had  learned  to  be  so  gravely  firm  — 
showed  that  he  could  enter  still  into  the  mirth  of  childhood; 
for  surely  to  the  time-worn  man  the  fast  young  lady  must 
have  seemed  but  a  giddy  child.  Lionel  was  amused.  Could 
this  be  the  austere  recluse  whom  he  had  left  in  the  shades 
of  Fawley?  Guy  Darrell,  at  his  years,  with  his  dignified 
repute,  the  object  of  so  many  nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed 
smiles, —  could  he  descend  to  be  that  most  frivolous  of  char- 
acters, a  male  coquet?  Was  he  in  earnest?  Was  his  vanity 
duped?  Looking  again,  Lionel  saw  in  his  kinsman's  face  a 
sudden  return  of  the  sad  despondent  expression  which  had 
moved  his  own  young  pity  in  the  solitudes  of  Fawley.  But 
in  a  moment  the  man  roused  himself:  the  sad  expression 
was  gone.  Had  the  girl's  merry  laugh  again  chased  it  away? 
But  Lionel's  attention  was  now  drawn  from  Darrell  himself 
to  the  observations  murmured  round  him,  of  which  Darrell 
was  the  theme. 

"  Yes,  he  is  bent  on  marrying  again !  I  have  it  from  Alban 
Morley:  immense  fortune;  and  so  young-looking,  any  girl 
might  fall  in  love  with  such  eyes  and  forehead;  besides,  what 
a  jointure  he  could  settle !  ...  Do  look  at  that  girl,  Flora 
Vyvyan,  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  him.  She  can't  appreciate 
that  kind  of  man,  and  she  would  not  be  caught  by  his  money ; 


474  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

does  not  want  it.  ...  I  wonder  she  is  not  afraid  of  him. 
He  is  certainly  quizzing  her.  .  .  .  The  men  think  her  pretty ; 
I  don't.  .  .  .  They  say  he  is  to  return  to  Parliament,  and 
have  a  place  in  the  Cabinet.  .  .  .  No!  he  has  no  children 
living :  very  natural  he  ,should  marry  again.  ...  A  nephew ! 
—  you  are  quite  mistaken.  Young  Haughton  is  no  nephew: 
a  very  distant  connection;  could  not  expect  to  be  the  heir 
....  It  was  given  out,  though,  at  Paris.  The  Duchess 
thought  so,  and  so  did  Lady  Jane.  They  '11  not  be  so  civil  to 
young  Haughton  now.  .  .  .  Hush  — " 

Lionel,  wishing  to  hear  no  more,  glided  by,  and  penetrated 
farther  into  the  throng.  And  then,  as  he  proceeded,  with 
those  last  words  on  his  ear,  the  consciousness  came  upon  him 
that  his  position  had  undergone  a  change.  Difficult  to  define 
it;  _to  an  ordinary  bystander  people  would  have  seemed  to 
welcome  him  cordially  as  ever.  The  gradations  of  respect  in 
polite  society  are  so  exquisitely  delicate,  that  it  seems  only 
by  a  sort  of  magnetism  that  one  knows  from  day  to  day 
whether  one  has  risen  or  declined.  A  man  has  lost  high 
office,  patronage,  power,  never  perhaps  to  regain  them.  Peo- 
ple don't  turn  their  backs  on  him;  their  smiles  are  as  gra- 
cious, their  hands  as  flatteringly  extended.  But  that  man 
would  be  dull  as  a  rhinoceros  if  he  did  not  feel  —  as  every 
one  who  accosts  him  feels  —  that  he  has  descended  in  the 
ladder.  So  with  all  else.  Lose  even  your  fortune,  it  is  not 
the  next  day  in  a  London  drawing-room  that  your  friends 
look  as  if  you  were  going  to  ask  them  for  five  pounds.  Wait 
a  year  or  so  for  -that.  But  if  they  have  just  heard  you  are 
ruined,  you  will  feel  that  they  have  heard  it,  let  them  bow 
ever  so  courteously,  smile  ever  so  kindly.  Lionel  at  Paris, 
in  the  last  year  or  so,  had  been  more  than  fashionable:  he 
had  been  the  fashion, — courted,  run  after,  petted,  quoted, 
imitated.  That  evening  he  felt  as  an  author  may  feel  who 
has  been  the  rage,  and  without  fault  of  his  own  is  so  no  more. 
The  rays  that  had  gilded  him  had  gone  back  to  the  orb  that 
lent.  And  they  who  were  most  genial  still  to  Lionel  Haughton 
were  those  who  still  most  respected  thirty-five  thousand 
pounds  a  year  —  in  Guy  Darrell! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  475 

Lionel  was  angry  with  himself  that  he  felt  galled.  But  in 
his  wounded  pride  there  was  no  mercenary  regret, —  only  that 
sort  of  sickness  which  comes  to  youth  when  the  hollowness  of 
worldly  life  is  first  made  clear  to  it.  From  the  faces  round 
him  there  fell  that  glamour  by  which  the  amour  propre  is 
held  captive  in  large  assemblies,  where  the  amour  propre  is 
flattered.  "Magnificent,  intelligent  audience,"  thinks  the 
applauded  actor.  "Delightful  party,"  murmurs  the  wor- 
shipped beauty.  Glamour !  glamour !  Let  the  audience  yawn 
while  the  actor  mouths ;  let  the  party  neglect  the  beauty  to 
adore  another,  and  straightway  the  "magnificent  audience" 
is  an  "ignorant  public,"  and  the  "delightful  party"  a  "heart- 
less world." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ESCAPED  from  a  London  drawing-room,  flesh  once  more  tingles  and  blood 
flows.  —  Gny  Darrell  explains  to  Lionel  Haughton  why  he  holds  it  a  duty 
to  be  —  an  old  fool. 

LIONEL  HAUOHTON  glided  through  the  disenchanted  rooms, 
and  breathed  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  he  found  himself 
in  the  friendless  streets. 

As  he  walked  slow  and  thoughtful  on,  he  suddenly  felt  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  turned,  and  saw  Darrell. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  my  dear  Lionel;  I  am  tired  out. 
What  a  lovely  night!  What  sweet  scorn  in  the  eyes  of  those 
stars  that  we  have  neglected  for  yon  flaring  lights." 

LIONEL.— "Is  it  scorn?  is  it  pity?  is  it  but  serene 
indifference?" 

DARRELL. —  "As  we  ourselves  interpret:  if  scorn  be  pres- 
ent in  our  own  hearts,  it  will  be  seen  in  the  disc  of  Jupiter. 
Man,  egotist  though  he  be,  exacts  sympathy  from  all  the 
universe.  Joyous,  he  says  to  the  sun,  'Life-giver,  rejoice 
with  me.*  Grieving,  he  says  to  the  moon,  'Pensive  one,  thou 
sharest  my  sorrow.'  Hope  for  fame;  a  star  is  its  promise  I 


476  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

Mourn  for  the  dead;  a  star  is  the  land  of  reunion!  Say  to 
earth,  'I  have  done  with  thee; '  to  Time,  'Thou  hast  nought 
to  bestow; '  and  all  space  cries  aloud,  'The  earth  is  a  speck, 
thine  inheritance  infinity.  Time  melts  while  thou  sighest. 
The  discontent  of  a  mortal  is  the  instinct  that  proves  thee 
immortal.'  Thus  construing  Nature,  Nature  is  our  com- 
panion, our  consoler.  Benign  as  the  playmate,  she  lends 
herself  to  our  shifting  humours.  Serious  as  the  teacher,  she 
responds  to  the  steadier  inquiries  of  reason.  Mystic  and  hal- 
lowed as  the  priestess,  she  keeps  alive  by  dim  oracles  that 
spiritual  yearning  within  us,  in  which,  from  savage  to  sage, 
—  through  all  dreams,  through  all  creeds, —  thrills  the  sense 
(of  a  link  with  Divinity.  Never,  therefore,  while  conferring 
with  Nature,  is  Man  wholly  alone,  nor  is  she  a  single  com- 
panion with  uniform  shape.  Ever  new,  ever  various,  she 
can  pass  from  gay  to  severe,  from  fancy  to  science, —  quick 
as  thought  passes  from  the  dance  of  a  leaf,  from  the  tint  of  a 
rainbow,  to  the  theory  of  motion,  the  problem  of  light.  But 
lose  Nature,  forget  or  dismiss  her,  make  companions,  by  hun- 
dreds, of  men  who  ignore  her,  and  I  will  not  say  with  the 
poet,  'This  is  solitude.'  But  in  the  commune,  what  stale 
monotony,  what  weary  sameness !  " 

Thus  Darrell  continued  to  weave  together  sentence  with 
sentence,  the  intermediate  connection  of  meaning  often  so 
subtle  that  when  put  down  on  paper  it  requires  effort  to  dis- 
cern it.  But  it  was  his  peculiar  gift  to  make  clear  when 
spoken  what  in  writing  would  seem  obscure.  Look,  manner, 
each  delicate  accent  in  a  voice  wonderfully  distinct  in  its  un- 
rivalled melody,  all  so  aided  the  sense  of  mere  words  that  it 
is  scarcely  extravagant  to  say  he  might  have  talked  an  un- 
known language,  and  a  listener  would  have  understood.  But, 
understood  or  not,  those  sweet  intonations  it  was  such  delight 
to  hear  that  any  one  with  nerves  alive  to  music  would  have 
murmured,  "Talk  on  forever."  And  in  this  gift  lay  one 
main  secret  of  the  man's  strange  influence  over  all  who  came 
familiarly  into  his  intercourse;  so  that  if  Darrell  had  ever 
bestowed  confidential  intimacy  on  any  one  not  by  some  an- 
tagonistic idiosyncrasy  steeled  against  its  charm,  and  that 


WHAT  WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT?  477 

intimacy  had  been  withdrawn,  a  void  never  to  be  refilled 
must  have  been  left  in  the  life  thus  robbed. 

Stopping  at  his  door,  as  Lionel,  rapt  by  the  music,  had  for- 
gotten the  pain  of  the  revery  so  bewitchingly  broken,  Darrell 
detained  the  hand  held  out  to  him,  and  said,  "No,  not  yet; 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you:  come  in;  let  me  say  it  now." 

Lionel  bowed  his  head,  and  in  surprised  conjecture  followed 
his  kinsman  up  the  lofty  stairs  into  the  same  comfortless 
stately  room  that  has  been  already  described.  When  the  ser- 
vant closed  the  door,  Darrell  sank  into  a  chair.  Fixing  his 
eye  upon  Lionel  with  almost  parental  kindness,  and  motion- 
ing his  young  cousin  to  sit  by  his  side,  close,  he  thus  began, — 

"  Lionel,  before  I  was  your  age  I  was  married ;  I  was  a 
father.  I  am  lonely  and  childless  now.  My  life  has  been 
moulded  by  a  solemn  obligation  which  so  few  could  compre- 
hend that  I  scarce  know  a  man  living  beside  yourself  to 
whom  I  would  frankly  confide  it.  Pride  of  family  is  a  com- 
mon infirmity, —  often  petulant  with  the  poor,  often  insolent 
with  the  rich;  but  rarely,  perhaps,  out  of  that  pride  do  men 
construct  a  positive  binding  duty,  which  at  all  self-sacrifice 
should  influence  the  practical  choice  of  life.  As  a  child,  be- 
fore my  judgment  could  discern  how  much  of  vain  supersti- 
tion may  lurk  in  our  reverence  for  the  dead,  my  whole  heart 
was  engaged  in  a  passionate  dream,  which  my  waking  exist- 
ence became  vowed  to  realize.  My  father!  —  my  lip  quivers, 
my  eyes  moisten  as  I  recall  him,  even  now, —  my  father! — I 
loved  him  so  intensely!  —  the  love  of  childhood,  how  fearfully 
strong  it  is!  All  in  him  was  so  gentle,  yet  so  sensitive,— 
chivalry  without  its  armour.  I  was  his  constant  companion : 
he  spoke  to  me  unreservedly,  as  a  poet  to  his  muse.  I  wept 
at  his  sorrows;  I  chafed  at  his  humiliations.  He  talked  of 
ancestors  as  he  thought  of  them;  to  him  they  were  beings  like 
the  old  Lares,— not  dead  in  graves,  but  images  ever  present 
on  household  hearths.  Doubtless  he  exaggerated  their  worth, 
as  their  old  importance.  Obscure,  indeed,  in  the  annals  of 
empire,  their  deeds  and  their  power,  their  decline  and  fall. 
Not  so  thought  he ;  they  were  to  his  eyes  the  moon-track  in 
the  ocean  of  history,— light  on  the  waves  over  which  they 


478  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

had  gleamed,  —  all  the  ocean  elsewhere  dark!  With  him 
thought  I;  as  my  father  spoke,  his  child  believed.  But  what 
to  the  eyes  of  the  world  was  this  inheritor  of  a  vaunted 
name?  —  a  threadbare,  slighted,  rustic  pedant;  no  station  in 
the  very  province  in  which  mouldered  away  the  last  lowly 
dwelling-place  of  his  line,  — by  lineage  high  above  most  no- 
bles, in  position  below  most  yeomen.  He  had  learning;  he 
had  genius :  but  the  studies  to  which  they  were  devoted  only 
served  yet  more  to  impoverish  his  scanty  means,  and  led 
rather  to  ridicule  than  to  honour.  Not  a  day  but  what  I  saw 
on  his  soft  features  the  smart  of  a  fresh  sting,  the  gnawing 
of  a  new  care.  Thus,  as  a  boy,  feeling  in  myself  a  strength 
inspired  by  affection,  I  came  to  him  one  day  as  he  sat  griev- 
ing, and  kneeling  to  him,  said,  'Father,  courage  yet  a  little 
while;  I  shall  soon  be  a  man,  and  I  swear  to  devote  myself  as 
man  to  revive  the  old  fading  race  so  prized  by  you;  to  re- 
build the  House  that,  by  you  so  loved,  is  loftier  in  my  eyes 
than  all  the  heraldry  of  kings.'  And  my  father's  face  bright- 
ened, and  his  voice  blessed  me ;  and  I  rose  up  —  ambitious !  " 
Darrell  paused,  heaved  a  short,  quick  sigh,  and  then  rapidly 
continued, — 

"  I  was  fortunate  at  the  University.  That  was  a  day  when 
chiefs  of  party  looked  for  recruits  amongst  young  men  who 
had  given  the  proofs  and  won  the  first-fruits  of  emulation  and 
assiduity;  for  statesmanship  then  was  deemed  an  art  which, 
like  that  of  war,  needs  early  discipline.  I  had  scarcely  left 
college  when  I  was  offered  a  seat  in  Parliament  by  the  head 
of  the  Viponts,  an  old  Lord  Montfort.  I  was  dazzled  but  for 
one  moment;  I  declined  the  next.  The  fallen  House  of 
Darrell  needed  wealth;  and  Parliamentary  success,  in  its 
higher  honours,  often  requires  wealth, —  never  gives  it.  It 
chanced  that  I  had  a  college  acquaintance  with  a  young  man 
named  Vipont  Crooke.  His  grandfather,  one  of  the  number- 
less Viponts,  had  been  compelled  to  add  the  name  of  Crooke 
to  his  own,  on  succeeding  to  the  property  of  some  rich  uncle, 
who  was  one  of  the  numberless  Crookes.  I  went  with  this 
college  acquaintance  to  visit  the  old  Lord  Montfort,  at  his 
villa  near  London,  and  thence  to  the  country-house  of  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  479 

Vipont  Crookes.  I  stayed  at  the  last  two  or  three  weeks. 
While  there,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  elder  Fairthorn,  my 
father's  bailiff,  entreating  me  to  come  immediately  to  Fawley, 
hinting  at  some  great  calamity.  On  taking  leave  of  my 
friend  and  his  family,  something  in  the  manner  of  his  sister 
startled  and  pained  me, —  an  evident  confusion,  a  burst  of 
tears, —  I  know  not  what.  I  had  never  sought  to  win  her 
affections.  I  had  an  ideal  of  the  woman  I  could  love,  —  it  did 
not  resemble  her.  On  reaching  Fawley,  conceive  the  shock 
that  awaited  me.  My  father  was  like  one  heart-stricken. 
The  principal  mortgagee  was  about  to  foreclose, —  Fawley 
about  to  pass  forever  from  the  race  of  the  Darrells.  I  saw 
that  the  day  my  father  was  driven  from  the  old  house  would 
be  his  last  on  earth.  What  means  to  save  him?  —  how  raise 
the  pitiful  sum  —  but  a  few  thousands  —  by  which  to  release 
from  the  spoiler's  gripe  those  barren  acres  which  all  the  lands 
of  the  Seymour  or  the  Gower  could  never  replace  in  my  poor 
father's  eyes?  My  sole  income  was  a  college  fellowship, 
adequate  to  all  my  wants,  but  useless  for  sale  or  loan.  1 
spent  the  night  in  vain  consultation  with  Fairthorn.  There 
seemed  not  a  hope.  Next  morning  came  a  letter  from  young 
Vipont  Crooke.  It  was  manly  and  frank,  though  somewhat 
coarse.  With  the  consent  of  his  parents  he  offered  me  his 
sister's  hand,  and  a  dowry  of  £10,000.  He  hinted,  in  ex- 
cuse for  his  bluntness,  that,  perhaps  from  motives  of  delicacy, 
if  I  felt  a  preference  for  his  sister,  I  might  not  deem  myself 
rich  enough  to  propose,  and  —  but  it  matters  not  what  else 
he  said.  You  foresee  the  rest.  My  father's  life  could  be 
saved  from  despair;  his  beloved  home  be  his  shelter  to  the 
last.  That  dowry  would  more  than  cover  the  paltry  debt 
upon  the  lands.  I  gave  myself  not  an  hour  to  pause.  I  has- 
tened back  to  the  house  to  which  fate  had  led  me.  But," 
said  Darrell,  proudly,  "  do  not  think  I  was  base  enough,  even 
with  such  excuses,  to  deceive  the  young  lady.  I  told  her 
what  was  true ;  that  I  could  not  profess  to  her  the  love  painted 
by  romance-writers  and  poets ;  but  that  I  loved  no  other,  and 
that  if  she  deigned  to  accept  my  hand,  I  should  studiously 
consult  her  happiness  and  gratefully  confide  to  her  my  own. 


480  WHAT   WILL   HE  DO  WITH  IT? 

1  said  also,  what  was  true,  that  if  she  married  me,  ours  must 
be  for  some  years  a  life  of  privation  and  struggle;  that  even 
the  interest  of  her  fortune  must  be  devoted  to  my  father 
while  he  lived,  though  every  shilling  of  its  capital  would  be 
settled  on  herself  and  her  children.  How  1  blessed  her  when 
she  accepted  me,  despite  my  candour !  —  how  earnestly  I 
prayed  that  I  might  love  and  cherish  and  requite  her!" 
Darrell  paused,  in  evident  suffering.  "And,  thank  Heaven! 
I  have  nothing  on  that  score  wherewith  to  reproach  myself; 
and  the  strength  of  that  memory  enabled  me  to  bear  and 
forbear  more  than  otherwise  would  have  been  possible  to  my 
quick  spirit  and  my  man's  heart.  My  dear  father!  his  death 
was  happy;  his  home  was  saved;  he  never  knew  at  what  sac- 
rifice to  his  son!  He  was  gladdened  by  the  first  honours  my 
youth  achieved.  He  was  resigned  to  my  choice  of  a  profes- 
sion, which,  though  contrary  to  his  antique  prejudices,  that 
allowed  to  the  representative  of  the  Darrells  no  profession 
but  the  sword,  still  promised  the  wealth  which  would  secure 
his  name  from  perishing.  He  was  credulous  of  my  future,  as 
if  I  had  uttered  not  a  vow,  but  a  prediction.  He  had  blessed 
my  union,  without  foreseeing  its  sorrows.  He  had  embraced 
my  first-born, —  true,  it  was  a  girl,  but  it  was  one  link  onward 
from  ancestors  to  posterity.  And  almost  his  last  words  were 
these:  'You  will  restore  the  race;  you  will  revive  the  name! 
and  my  son's  children  will  visit  the  antiquary's  grave,  and 
learn  gratitude  to  him  for  all  that  his  idle  lessons  taught  to 
your  healthier  vigour. '  And  I  answered,  'Father,  your  line 
shall  not  perish  from  the  land;  and  when  1  am  rich  and 
great,  and  lordships  spread  far  round  the  lowly  hall  that  your 
life  ennobled,  I  will  say  to  your  grandchildren,  'Honour  ye 
and  your  son's  sons,  while  a  Darrell  yet  treads  the  earth, 
honour  him  to  whom  I  owe  every  thought  which  nerved  me 
to  toil  for  what  you  who  come  after  me  may  enjoy.' 

"And  so  the  old  man,  whose  life  had  been  so  smileless, 
died  smiling." 

By  this  time  Lionel  had  stolen  Darrell's  hand  into  his  own, 
—  his  heart  swelling  with  childlike  tenderness,  and  the  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks. 


WHAT   WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  481 

Darrell  gently  kissed  his  young  kinsman's  forehead,  and, 
extricating  himself  from  Lionel's  clasp,  paced  the  room,  and 
spoke  on  while  pacing  it. 

"I  made,  then,  a  promise;  it  is  not  kept.     No  child  of  mine 
survives  to  be  taught  reverence  to  my  father's  grave.     My 
wedded  life  was  not  happy :  its  record  needs  no  words.     Of 
two  children  born  to  me,  both  are  gone.     My  son  went  first. 
I  had  thrown  my  life's  life  into  him,  — a  boy  of  energy,  of 
noble  promise.     '  T  was  for  him  I  began  to  build  that  baffled 
fabric,    ' Sepulchri  immemor.'     For  him  I    bought,    acre  on 
acre,    all  the  land  within  reach  of  Fawley, —  lands  twelve 
miles  distant.     I  had  meant  to  fill  up  the  intervening  space, 
to  buy  out  a  mushroom  earl  whose  woods  and  cornfields  lie 
between.     I  was  scheming   the  purchase,   scrawling  on   the 
county  map,  when  they  brought  the  news  that  the  boy  I  had 
just  taken  back  to  school  was  dead, —  drowned  bathing  on  a 
calm  summer  eve.     No,  Lionel.     I  must  go  on.     Thai  grief 
I  have  wrestled  with, —  conquered.     1  was  widowed  then.     A 
daughter  still  left,  —  the  first-born,  whom  my  father  had  blest 
on  his  death-bed.     I  transferred  all  my  love,  all  my  hopes, 
to  her.     I  had  no  vain  preference  for  male  heirs.     Is  a  race 
less  pure  that  runs  on  through  the  female  line?    Well,  my 
son's  death  was  merciful  compared  to  — "    Again  Darrell 
stopped,  again  hurried  on.     "  Enough !  all  is  forgiven  in  the 
grave!     I  was   then  still   in  the  noon  of  man's  life,  free  to 
form  new  ties.     Another  grief  that  I  cannot  tell  you;  it  is 
not  all  conquered  yet.     And  by  that  grief  the  last  verdure  of 
existence  was  so  blighted  that  —  that  —  in  short,  I   had  no 
heart  for  nuptial  altars,  for  the  social  world.     Years  went  by. 
Each  year  I  said,  'Next  year  the  wound  will  be  healed;  I 
have  time  yet.'    Now  age  is  near,  the  grave  not  far;  now, 
if  ever,   I  must  fulfil  the  promise  that  cheered  my  father's 
death-bed.     Nor  does  that  duty  comprise  all  my  motives.     If 
I  would  regain  healthful  thought,  manly  action,  for  my  re- 
maining years,    I  must  feel  that  one  haunting  memory   is 
exorcised  and  forever  laid  at  rest.     It  can  be  so  only,—  what- 
ever my  risk  of  new  cares,  whatever  the  folly  of  the  hazard 
at  my  age,— be  so  only  by  — by-         Once  more  Darrell 

VOL.  I.  —  31 


482  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH   IT? 

paused,  fixed  his  eyes  steadily  on  Lionel,  and,  opening  his 
arms,  cried  out,  "  Forgive  me,  my  noble  Lionel,  that  I  am 
not  contented  with  an  heir  like  you;  and  do  not  you  mock  at 
the  old  man  who  dreams  that  woman  may  love  him  yet,  and 
that  his  own  children  may  inherit  his  father's  home." 

Lionel  sprang  to  the  breast  that  opened  to  him;  and  if 
Darrell  had  planned  how  best  to  remove  from  the  young 
man's  mind  forever  the  possibility  of  one  selfish  pang,  no 
craft  could  have  attained  his  object  like  that  touching  con- 
fidence before  which  the  disparities  between  }routh  and  age 
literally  vanished.  And,  both  made  equal,  both  elevated 
alike,  verily  I  know  not  which  at  the  moment  felt  the  elder 
or  the  younger!  Two  noble  hearts,  intermingled  in  one 
emotion,  are  set  free  from  all  time  save  the  present:  par 
each  with  each,  they  meet  as  brothers  twin-born. 


END    OF    VOL.  I. 


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